THE MUSIC ROOM Poem by Hédi Kaddour

As for the parquet, it's in a fishbone pattern:
Each square made of four other
Squares whose planks seem to pursue
Each other, and the walls are covered with
Mahogany and leather. From here, they watched
The factory, they were served éclairs, they played
Beethoven, planing down his ironies,
And when it was all closed up police were posted
Here for thirty years. No one comes any more,
The Pleyel is shot to hell
And the doctor adds that with one good heat
Wave, there'll be fourteen less of his
Old geezers in town, at fifteen hundred
Francs apiece a year, you can add that up fast enough.