Victor's Room

It was a room that cast a spell on you.
The bookshelves boasted of all the right books
And the lazy lounge chair and svelte lamp
Like a Moroccan don and vixen vamp
Invited you smoothly, blowing smoke rings into your face.
Sit down, sit down.
The window stared into a narrow cobblestone street.
Outside, burnt brick houses leaned over each other,
- Ponderous, pondering, smoking a little.
Inside, a fire burnt assiduously
Dancing, bickering and bantering with fellow flames.
Rosemary prepared the coffee.
And silver spoons and coffee cups
Waited eagerly, and importantly like bright children.

Victor was old.
He didn’t bother with hats, suits
Or patent leather shoes.
He stayed at home and watched the news.
He read a lot,
Settling down comfortably on the Moroccan don
And smoking rare Cuban cigars and Java coffee fumes.
He’d travel thrice a year.
Some place exotic and new.
But quiet, with plenty of solitude.
Victor was old.
Sometimes he missed the tangerine perfume
That once invaded this room.

Victor dreamed sometimes, when he finished reading
The yellowed pages of some old, worn book.
He dreamt of woods and jungles
And a strange red earth…
And a perfume, yes, the most divine perfume,
Of tangerine with a lemon’s twist.
Of olive skin and guitars
And rain in December.
He imagined he heard laughter sometimes…
And mirthful voices that bantered
Like the flames in his hearth.
And the eyes, of course the eyes –
Dark, stormy, gypsy eyes
That, veiled themselves with thick eyelashes
And an elusive vagueness.
Yes, Victor dreamed sometimes.

Was it this room? Of course it was.
Where a flower, a powerful, powerful flower
Was brought and kept for everyone to see.
Its lavish petals enthralled all,
And its sweet smell intoxicated.
And Victor, nourished the earth
That his prized possession grew on.
Right next to the Japanese paintings
And Russian dolls,
Pushed against a green-apple wall,
The one with the window,
In a most exquisite vase.
The flower lived out its life
And faded...
It never replicated.
And Victor settled for some less exotic daisies.

And as he sits, by the warm fire
Reading a book, leather-bound and kind of dull…
Victor feels a little chill.
Like a breathy whisper -
Of frozen citrus perfume.
And he cannot help it as he chokes,
On some powerful unseen beauty,
And the coffee grows cold
And the glowing cigar-end turns to ashes…