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French Manicure
The music's beginning,
Beethoven's Symphony No. 4 in B-flat, Opus 60,
conducted by the still formidable Andre Previn,
such a big sound, big and steady and indomitable
as the surf rushing the shore in a storm. But, alas,
I am distracted by my wife's little foot,
wrapped in the thin straps of her lime-green sandals,
a petite leather flower holding steady
at the base of her big toe,
her toenails proudly gleaming even in
this dim twilight gloaming
in their new French manicure.
I want to kneel down before this magnificent woman,
take her precious foot carefully as if it were made
of ancient porcelain in my hands and kiss
it reverently as Lancelot kissed Guinevere?s foot.
But for now I'll have to settle for Beethoven's 4th
and remain secure in the knowledge that
Beethoven has nothing my wife's little foot can't top,
of this I'm certain he would agree.
Michael Estabrook: Over the years Michael Estabrook has published a few chapbooks and appeared in some
terrific poetry magazines, but you are only as good as your next poem and like a surfer looking for that perfect wave,
he is a poet prowling for that perfect
poem. Right now he is looking for that perfect
poem in his wife, who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known. If he finds it anywhere he’ll find it in her.
Email: Michael Estabrook
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