Perhaps Another Idle LunchWe pick up bite sized morsels,
as fingers dip into lemon scented bowls,
'the candlelight, my dear, sublime,
an elephant in its lifetime
could flood the plains of Africa'.
The waiter with a stained towel;
he spilt the wine, it leaves
a mark upon the pristine cloth.
He orders Chateau-Maison,
I rub salt into the blemished spot.
We listen to the burble of other
diners, bubbles bursting over lunch,
I wonder what le petit dejeuner
would offer, smoked salmon Benedict
with an after taste of kippers.
The hyacinths bought cheap
have yet to show their colour,
a man in corduroy and velvet
berates the lady running late
she mouthes an unseen apology ~
I think as idly I play with the stem
that the contents of this cheap excuse
could be poured quite amply
upon his balding melon head,
instead of hair transplants and such
a miracle cure for men with alopecia.
I notice that the stain looks just like
a monkey playing jazz,
you nod, as you always do
in total, amicable agreement.
Well fed, we smile, pay the tariff
and amble happily away.
Poetry by Elle
Read 491 times
Written on 2014-01-17 at 18:02
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