the mushroom man, bessèges,

was almost incomprehensible,
but I heard the word for mushrooms
at exactly the moment when
the customers suddenly fluttered.

Setting down his knife, the butcher gaped
as if he had an apple in his mouth,
a perfect objet of his meaty art.
Two hundred kilos I gathered

he had gathered, a mind-boggling haul;
later I learned he'd sliced and dried them, but
(like Nixon checking Oval Office tapes)
imagined he'd be dead before

he'd have the chance to wade through all that lot.
What more is there to say but c'est la france?