Ginger Ice

I'll go ahead and admit I love this poem. Not because I think it's great or anything, I just love it, like you love your child even if they have an extra eye or something. 

Ginger Ice (in response to Vettriano's Singing Butler)

That night in Buenos Aires,

they danced under the dome

of umbrellas and sang

a requiem for star

fish, washed up on the sand,

their only shroud a shadow

 

from the couple's liquid waltz.

The maid cast down her eyes,

tucked a tendril in her cap,

and the couple closer swayed -

his hand pressed on her back,

she nudged his shoulder with her chin -

 

the butler lost his bowler, chased it

Charlie Chaplin style

until it reached the surf

and disappeared

into the labyrinth of waves.

He tossed a log of driftwood

 

and retraced his sandy tracks.

The couple never noticed,

not even when the wind

whipped his tails, her cherry dress, 

and spun confetti from the sand. 

 

Later, in the plaza,

they spooned ginger ices 

by the fountain

(the maid and butler yawning

on the balustrade). 

She kissed his cheek, left a syrupy ring.