Literary casserole

[Under the skirt of an iris — photo by jean-claude]

In Madame Bovary’s garden, under a Japanese Iris, during a rain storm, huddling with the wife of a train conductor, a Zen monk, a Holocaust survivor reciting the works of the Romanian poet Lucian Blaga, like an incantation: I am kneeling in the wind, near the saddest star, a distinguished blind artist wearing a Brooks Brother suit and a pair of black tennis shoes, like the ones in Carrie’s story, a gold platted Donald Trump cutout, but no catholic nun to be seen, a salesman with an empty satchel, this surely must be a very badly written play, I must wake up from this nightmare, but I cannot, Madame Bovary just shoved me in her pocket and put a large kerchief smelling of lavender on top of me.