SECRET HIDDEN.
And be careful, Aimee,
That Monsieur Renard
Does not see the letter,
Madame Renard says
As you hold the letter
She has given to you.
Sealed no chance of
Seeing the contents,
You muse looking at
Her, wondering whom
It is she has written
To that her husband
Must not know about,
Seeing the look of deep
Apprehension in her eyes,
The fingers touching her
Chin, the mouth slightly
Open after the words have
Left. Safe as can be with
Me, Mistress, you reply,
Pushing the letter in a
Pocket of your dress,
Feeling it there, wanting
To open and see, satisfy
Your curiosity. And don’t
Be too long, Aimee, no
Chattering to other servants
While out, and while you
Are near the market bring
Some fruit, and see that the
Apples are not bruised, last
Time they were too bruised,
Monsieur Renard would not
Eat them and such a waste.
You nod and curtsey and
Leave the room, the scent
Of Madame Renard clinging
To your nose, the memory
Of Madame and Monsieur
Copulating quite vigorously
In their bed the other morning
As you went by their room
And the door partially open
And them too engaged in their
Lovemaking to notice and you
Peering through the chink, biting
Your lip, thinking of Paul and
You and the quick snatched
Moments of your own in that
Very same bed some months
Before. You open the door and
Enter the street and walk clutching
The letter tightly, wanting to know
The contents, tempted to open,
Feeling it between fingers, but
No, its secret must remain secret,
And you must go and post and
Shop and do as you are bidden
For the secret of this and other
Things must sometimes be hidden.
