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  • The
    King of France
    walks about barefooted
    and fundamental
    usually in wide circles
    outside my window,
    his long blond unbrushed hair
    in clumps,
    split ends beneath
    a rhinestone crown,
    his torn purple cape
    draping him and dripping
    all colors of royalty
    with insignias and history
    and the appointed
    noble glory of self.

    both economy
    and technology,
    he stands there waving
    his papier mache scepter
    in cheap gold foil,
    but with forgiveness
    at both pedestrians
    and passing cars
    this street of headaches
    and harebrained hustles,
    and then bows
    with tawdry majesty
    to equal sides of
    a red light.

    cops refuse
    to pick him up any more;
    he's no longer a threat,
    not since his treatments
    and of course
    the days of the guillotine.

    it's only
    a question of time
    before he spots me
    walks over to my window
    spouting stuff
    in French and in Latin
    while extending me
    his limp dirty hand;
    it doesn't matter,
    I won't kiss his hand
    and not only because
    he's not my king.

    shutting the window,
    I return
    to my choices of menu
    as to whether
    I should finish off
    the oatmeal
    or kill off the beans...
    a tough choice.

    as I sit adrift
    the remainder of the day
    in the mess of my life,
    I recall
    some earlier times

    I had some dreams


    (c)2014 Miles Ciletti

    Original Music by Tim Eilers
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