The First Day

1
This shoe-box of a castle —
perfect for the disowned son
of a squire; cousin three times
removed from a duke — perhaps.
By trade, he's a failed pirate;
a stash of doubloons inside
a sock gambled him up wealth,
coat of arms, a lineage…
Right now each lordly eye holds
a small circumflex of flames:
he's lit — like so many fat
cigars — the candelabrum's
bounty, set it down by his
Mrs Mousquette the Seventh.
If she had whiskers, they'd be
quivering by this, he thinks,
thrusting the cheese-board towards her,
a pollen of crumbs along
his sleeve. He grins with the huge
Latinate whiteness of a
Pavarotti — and this is
an opera! He's written
a libretto of nuanced
screams and had rehearsals: six…
But at this point, it's her move.
2
His shiny flat brown eyes, she's thinking,
belong to some creature left out of
a Quattrocento dream of Eden
and rancid with grief ever after…
 (That grief peers from its cage:
He'd so like things to change — if
only they could stay the same!
Failing that, one rule holds sway:
"When in doubt, take hostages.')
A sigh… Perhaps the little she knows
is too much for this part? But she has
chosen; and besides, she's curious.