For April (Because She Makes Me Happy)

In aging brick buildings on old town squares
Maids open up windows to let the breeze
Into stale, musted offices of aging capitalists
And it reminds them of their mothers or fathers
Doing the same thing when they were children and young.
The maids get in the way of the wind
While dusting the banisters and Phoenician blinds
So the cool air blows around their French uniforms,
Ruffling their white aprons and feather dusters.
But Mother wore summer dresses and Father smoked a pipe
When they would open up the window for their kids at night.
The aging capitalists regret the missing details. And then--
They notice they have sprawled out their files
And notes and type writers or pens
To be blown by the blusters, when the maids are out of the way,
Across the sturdy oak of their antique desks
Because they have more fun reorganizing
Than they do remembering old wives and divorces.
Which happens easier at work,
Because their minds wonder there during the day.
They might think of their maids and files while restacking
And, if lucky, their mothers or fathers, but it seems
They’ll mostly think of their Imported cigarettes
Smelling of chocolates, good tobacco, and French creams
Because smoke breaks are distractions from foreign thoughts attacking.
Those poor fools will never know
The happiness to me you are willing to show.
Sometimes I shame the smile in my eyes
Because you let my spirit live, and we can watch theirs die.