by Roger Fanning

Baudelaire， dead broke， nonetheless allowed himself

two hours for his morning ablutions.

（Warm water can be a narcotic too.）

His razor scraping whiskers cleanly off

sounded like a file rassrasping

against prison bars. Never did this man

gulp a cup of coffee， bolt out the door

with a blob of shaving cream on one ear，

and go to a job. He composed himself.

Dead broke， he explored （in prose） six waterdrops

that quake in a corner of Delacroix's painting

Dante and Virgil！ Meanwhile， through his window

intruded softly the spiel of a fishmonger

as well as the stench. Many， many vendors still

singsong their wares， as a sort of wishwash drizzle

inducing human animals to mope， to yawn.

We all get bored： between mainstream culture （buy things）

and nature （in this case， rain）， people tend to snooze.

Poetry jolts awake the lucky few. I praise

the mirror-gazing mighty poet Baudelaire，

my hero， a fop full of compulsions，

a perfectionist to whom a single

tweezered nosehair brought tears of joy.