14 Jan 2016 – King
Tamales, chili, sour cream:
steam whimpers to a snow-baked dawn.
I’m yawning, still unsteady on my feet,
yet greeting pure blue brilliance,
telling me “well done” for waking
as so many now refuse to,
falling into frosted furrows,
tossed back into mother earth
to wait their promised second birth
as kings – or queens – or cabbages.
All hold course towards destiny,
you cannot know the secret charts
the rutabaga steers by,
nor can your quaint philosophies
disuade the hopes first mapped in dirt
and dung – it is your sterile,
lifeless concrete I now laugh at,
now that I’m a king myself –
the soverign lord of fertilzer,
an aging king of cabbages.