I.
Little Richard is in a wheelchair!
We were sitting in the airport,
The airport in Paris, de Gaulle,
and we were waiting, waiting,
for our plane, having a
meal as we waited,
when Little Richard, in his
finest hair and velvet collar
and shiny rings, was pushed
in on a chair. I never
knew he was even sick or
that his legs were so tired
from all that hooting and singing
and standing on pianos.
I never knew he was now so
weary and still.
Oh Little Richard we love you get up
II.
The Originator spoke sweetly—
“English tea,” he asked
the sour French waitress,
conveying then with
the greatest difficulty
his desire
to ensure she get her tip.
She hemmed and frowned and blew
in her confusion.
“Honey,” he finally breathed,
in exasperated southern lilt,
“all I want to do
is make sure get your share.”
III.
As we left, I stood
at my table and gathered
my things. He never
pretended that I had
not been staring.
He grinned and waved,
his fingers playing
in the air
a gentle scale of
both hello, and of bon voyage.