Sunday Morning

Everyone's gone. I am here by myself,
King of the hill in this part of America,
Cigarette satisfied, feasting my eyes
On a robin's-egg sky, and the corn
In the fields of a valley still seeming to
Slumber in peace. If you happen to see
Me, don't utter a word. Turn around,
And make haste to the center of town.
Tell the lowly a monarch is pleased.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2010-06-01 at 11:50

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