Murmurs of French
must have blanketed the great–
cocooning 'round Salinger,
lilting for Whitman–

flitting by Carroll and
flirting with Eliot,
sighing on Plato,
marching in Chaucer,
nuzzling up Dickinson,
lying with Hemingway,
giggling to Alcott and
gasping at Plath.

Murmurs of French
must have borne their babe souls,
gifting them music
instead of dry words.

Murmurs of French,
the language of beauty,
just buzz past my ears
'fore I swat them away.
It is fitting, I think,
that my tongue should collapse
upon trying merci
or a bon appétit,

and the lone French I can muster
is notably stolen
from the notoriety of
a Madame Marmalade.