IT WAS A BICHON FRISÉ\'S LIFE . . .

IT WAS A BICHON FRISÉ\'S LIFE . . .

IT WAS A BICHON FRISÉ\'S LIFE . . .

Louisiana skies paddle north nodding hello to some exiles
displaced by floodwaters so we all putter in the bisque
in fretted dresses, alleviated by a fan. But we have nothing on

“Le Matin,” in whose rococo frame a curtain sweeps to bare
a boudoir, a Bichon Frisé worrying something between paws,
begging the dulcet glance of the mistress whose push-up,

cupless corset and up-drawn stocking border what they
fall short of, per the stern frame rippling like a cloud!
Even the candle angles to get a look in the mirror

engloving the scene. Why it is her slipper the bitch clutches!
The gentleman’s reverie is elsewhere . . . Loitering
Louisiana stops to admire this engraving by “N. Lavreinee.”

What a chevalier! It makes the smeariest sunset think
it\'s in a Restoration Comedy, in such humidity
chefs defer meringues. “Ksar Rouge,” “Taos Adobe,”

“Gulf Shrimp”—a thousand names of softboiled
lipsticks fritter English as if it were French, meaning
meeting no resistance from the flesh.