At the table beyond us
With her little suede slippers off,
With her white-stocking’d feet
Carefully kept from the floor by a napkin,
She converses:
Connaissez-vous Ostende?
The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the restaurant
Replies with a certain hauteur,
But I await with patience
To see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.
She re-enters them with a groan.