Where are you, Louis?
Where are you, what have they done with you?
Have they burned you? Buried you? Can we still come and see you?

And if so, where? Where, exactly?

In Paris? In the provinces?

 

Where are you and how should I imagine you now?

Under a slab? Deep inside a tomb? In an urn?

Dressed, recumbent, wearing makeup and nearly decomposed,

or in ashes?

Or scattered, dispersed, spread

lost

Louis.

You were so handsome . . . 

 

What have they done with you?

 

What have they done with you and who are they, anyway? Who are these people you never spoke about?

Did you have a family?

Of course you did. Every day I go down a boulevard that bears your name. I have forgotten what your connection was with the family of that victorious Marshal of the Empire, but you did have a family, of course you did.

What sort of family?

Who are they? What are they worth?

Did you love them? Did they love you? Did they respect your last wishes?

 

What were your last wishes, Louis?

 

shit, Louis,

shit

you piss me off