Baudelaire, dead broke, nonetheless allowed himself two hours for his morning ablutions. (Warm water can be a narcotic too.) His razor scraping whiskers cleanly off sounded like a file rassrasping against prison bars. Never did this man gulp a cup of coffee, bolt out the door with a blob of shaving cream on one ear, and go to a job. He composed himself. Dead broke, he explored (in prose) six waterdrops that quake in a corner of Delacroix's painting Dante and Virgil! Meanwhile, through his window intruded softly the spiel of a fishmonger as well as the stench. Many, many vendors still singsong their wares, as a sort of wishwash drizzle inducing human animals to mope, to yawn. We all get bored: between mainstream culture (buy things) and nature (in this case, rain), people tend to snooze. Poetry jolts awake the lucky few. I praise the mirror-gazing mighty poet Baudelaire, my hero, a fop full of compulsions, a perfectionist to whom a single tweezered nosehair brought tears of joy.