Princely Wishing

Princes dance and sway on swollen corks
from wine bottles sour and mired in weird fluid
where we already cavort like fine young things
on stolen holiday.

Wishes blow between our waiting eyes and curving lips
in submarine season while the maples and the bent ash waft
easy in the breeze and nowhere else may beckon
but not matter yet somehow still pleases us together.

So, take this little poem and stick it under or behind
a solid rock or perhaps within a fine crack or wiggly little line
where only little people take the time to sit and speak
of paintings ripe with color sparkling bright and clean
like bunches of plump wet grapes or summer’s freshest limes.