Waiting for a Gypsy
Be gentle then. Be gentle.
We can’t all play the flute
And even if he sometimes plucks the lute
It’s usually flat and out of tune.
Have patience love. Have patience.
The world’s his palette, but he lacks a brush
And finger painting never was his thing:
It messes up the nails.
He’s full, I’ll have you know…
He’s full of song and dance and poetry;
But the moving finger does not write
And the music’s mute.
I tell you, in his house,
Silent in its dusty shut-tight case
An old accordion waits in pleated pause,
Longing for a tango.
And by the silent piano
Two guitars lean stiff with flaccid strings
Flamenco throbbing in the wood,
Waiting for a gypsy.
© Alex de Verteuil
