In The Merde

In a spate of condescending kindness
Mme La Pompadour sent me a book,
something to read when the hot air in
the office become hours unending

Most obligingly I started reading but
found the prose not to my taste, sitting
in Purgatory the title - “In the Merde”-
is making things worse, makes me sad

Clenching two bottles with iced water
under each arm, oblivious to cold burn,
to cool down as temperature soars and
apologetic messages from desperate

Auxiliary Services assure us that our
bravery working in the heat of hell is
to our credit; problems with the air-con
are being solved; they’re working on it

I’m in the Merde today and nothing I
can do or say is making it better, even
Saint-Saëns’ Aquarium only makes me
cry, nothing can be done when it’s dark

In my heart, when I try to sing Gounod’s 
Ave Maria & find my vocal cords are too
short, my sense of timing is atrocious and
I can’t master pronouncing the Latin words

Nothing worked out except my translation,
a fellow claiming he wants to build a school
for happiness – making a profit and reclaiming
his dignity and joie de vivre as an Ivorian

Living in Algeria - sounds like he’s in the
Merde too and all I could do was relay his
French claims of existential pain in the
Queen’s English, I’m running from this place…