Uncle Beige

[theswelter]

Uncle Beige rests on the desert, stretched out,
Like a zillion suede hats.
Igneous relic;
Retired Malboro Man.
Two young date palms
Shake green feather headdresses
Lust on those basilic veins
Remnants of heat that came from below.
They shake their fronds,
Sway their hips,
Beckoning,
But neither pros nor cons can
Excite Uncle Beige any more.
"What a bore.
If only he would samba!"
An old dog with whiskey eyes overhears.
He lives in homesteader cabins
Blown dusty by sepia winds.
Watches the palms' emerald shimmy,
And runs to them,
Ups his hind, sprays adoring gold
On wrinkled brown skin.
The ladies shudder
At such terrible lack of manners
And boulders crack
As Uncle Beige stifles a giggle.