This old man’s palm a supplicant,
in turn for spots of majesty.
Parquet, so parched, believing still,
he will be aided, granted balm.
Congregating by the gate,
the splashed mob hewn their jewelled limbs,
a league above in finery with laissez-faire in rule.
Embracing life, that discipline,
a bind of beauty sought. His work
to be rewarded thus
when fealty seals with ordained fuss.
We all wait still to progress on as
benefacted and sun-shone; sole
ambulatory morsel mortals
bent to wait while time goes on.
Pat Mellow © 2018