While riding the bus, I found it,
There on the floor right by my boot.
A silver-leafed vine wound round it,
On top, some miniature fruit.
Six inches long, sharp as a spear,
Burnished metal that seemed antique.
Quite lethal, the thing did appear,
And my interest, it did pique.
What is it? I silently mused,
Not having seen its likes before.
For what do you suppose it’s used?
And who dropped it onto the floor?
I fingered it there, in my seat,
Enjoying the slight mystery,
The craftsmanship couldn’t be beat.
I wondered of its history.
Being a man, I had no clue -
A hat pin was foreign to me,
But I’d be surprised if I knew
Who found it useful, formerly.
It once held a fruitbowl in place,
Apples, bananas on display,
Loose grapes dangling in her face,
Dancing, south of the border way.
With split skirt, she’d shimmy and shake,
So at great legs, men might gander.
At rhumba, make no mistake,
The world knew Carmen Miranda.