Her Majesty

The old queen morosely eats his dinner,
Takeout from the grocery store, at home,
In front of his TV. He watches as the
Dancers dip and swirl, and he tries to
Tell himself that he'd be perfect there,
And that a pretty college boy could
Dip and do si do with him, regardless
Of reality. He's gotten old. Nobody
Calls. Those boys are summoned
To the places he no longer gets to go.
He gets to languish here, and wish
That they would come to visit him.
They don't. The night comes,
Empty-handed. He absorbs
The dancing, dead and lonely,
Queen of nothing, old, forgotten.
Have a drink. Let darkness come.
Let all be lost, and let the world,
The pretty boys, the women who
Prefer to be with men who lust
For other men, surround him
Somewhere in the discotech's
Dead lights. Perhaps he ought
To abdicate. Let someone else
Become the queen, and let him
Fade to nothingness, a guy
Who's having takeout food
For dinner, and whose looks
Have faded, reason enough
To be trapped inside the house,
Morose.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 86 times
Written on 2017-09-13 at 02:57

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