A poem with cribbage in it!!!

From heartsdeesire

Waiting

I am waiting for the light to change,
from red to gold to green and then
to fuscia and cyan, to tourmaline and salmon,
for the walk/don’t walk sign to break into Claire de Lune
and tap dance down the street, for awnings over swank boutiques
to join hands and become the flags
of brand new nations no one’s visited before,
where bacon rolls of yellow and chartreuse
are sold in outdoor stalls
to people who stand lunching without shoes.

Where women in cafes approach, suggest
I take them home for games of cribbage,
games that last for hours and end on sheepskin rugs
in front of fires, I confess
I’m waiting to become indigenous, for
my hide to thicken and my fears to thin,
for my ancient dog to die,
my well to spring to wet again,

for you to leave your husband
For the one day I will turn to see
you standing by my kitchen sink,
and when I run my hands along
your shoulders to the cleft
between your breasts you’re really there.

~Margo Solod
Some Very Soft Days