Clifton King Poems
The garden is raucous with yellow and orange.
I find a bench in the shade.
Gravel pathways crunch beneath the crush of tourists.
A muted mix of Italian, French, that proper King’s English,
and the American version, fills fragrance laden air.
Bees and butterflies are overwhelmed with choices.
A woman nearby talks on her cell phone, in French.
Her words, music I don’t understand.
In the distance, school children play, raise a bouquet of laughter.
A girl, voice so soft I barely hear her request,
asks me to take her picture.
I intended to write a poem, ...