You purloin books from
Monsieur Marteau’s large
Library; you like

The slightly saucy
Ones best; the books he
Hides from his wife. You

Can smell his sweaty
Palms all over them.
He has an eye for

You; you can tell by
The way he follows
You around the room

As you slowly dust
And polish around
The shelves, removing

Books and wiping them
Clean. You are very
Thorough Mimi, he

Says, not all maids are
As dedicated
As you, and he laughs

And you laugh with him
Putting on one of
Your pretend blushes.

Madame Marteau has
The face of a smacked
Bottom; her thin lips

Seldom spread into
A smile; her eyes are
As olives in snow.

Don’t be too long with
That dusting, girl, there
Is much to do and

When are you going
To tidy yourself
Up, you are so slow

And slovenly; not
What I expect from
A maid at all, she

Moans, her haughty voice
Echoing around
The hall. You love to

Read his saucy books,
His fingerprints are
On the edges, dark

And oily; his pipe
Tobacco stinky
Smell escapes from each

Page and you as you leave
The library and
Pull the door behind

You with a gentle
Click, you imagine
Him alone in there

Scanning over the
Saucy books; his lips
Drooling, his dull eyes

Being feed ****
Images and his
Sad wife elsewhere, now

Forgotten or too
Busy or moaning
At you; and while you

Snuggle up in bed
At night with the book’s
Thrilling dark pages,

His wife lies in her
Bed untouched, unloved,
Unkissed and cold and
Has been for ages.