The Crumb
The Crumb
The Grand Old Dame sat at the table
With cream on the corner of her mouth
From a donut she ate
And a coffee in her shaking hand
A white visor donned her head
And red sprinkled with white
Was the color of her hair
Reflecting from a foggy light
From the ceiling in a dirty diner
At one time she was the elite
The meat
Of notoriety of a select group of society
Where decisions were made
By a select few
Whom the masses never knew
That shaped the way the world would turn
The hand that shook once kissed by royalty
Now wizened and palsied
Picked up a crumb and stared at it
As if it were a gem
The jewels amassed as she recalled
in times of wealth
she placed the crumb in her mouth
and conjured up tastes
when her palate was young
the delicate meats, the caviar
her suite in Paris
her gentleman friends
But all is gone now
Oh dear, she laments, oh dear
Then she rises from the table and stands erect
Befitting her character
And leaves the contents on the table
And the past behind
June 23, 2003 (Movin’ to Florida)
© Ralph Sergi
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