FULL MOON ON TOP OF A CHAMPAGNE PALM'S TIP

A POEM FOR THAT PATIENT WAITING

on a Sunday morning
you sit there like a queen
Elizabeth

one leg above the other
behaving like a French
Parliamentarian
a tobacco pipe between his lips
smoke coming out of that aquiline nose
more like a chimney
this time of a holy day

he stares at the screen of
his computer
the fingers are waiting
for the words to write

the words appear hazy in
the morning
still wet with dew
eyes foggy, and body is
wrapped with mists

for all you know everyone is
patiently waiting
words too have feet curling
like numbers in an accounting sheet
hands akimbo in fury

someone is waiting as to who should
make the first punch
you make it
to start this fireworks of words

impregnated with the ripeness of time
all eyes look at the birth of the first line
of your unexpected poem