Poem: Waiting For Gardenias


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

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