The Waiter

his mother comes from Morocco
her gauzy floral robes swirling about her
in dark desert breezes; his father a French
aristocrat having fallen in love one
dark night over sweet mint teas,
the scent of hibisicus flowers drifting
in on breezes which remind him of
the hot breath of previous lovers.
he stands erect before us holding
lemon tarts and tawny port, sweetening
the darkness of night, of
celebrations.