Monday, March 9, 2015


You thought an enormous chair
Would just fill that empty corner
But the men who bring it to your house
Are strangely obsequious. One of them,
You think, tugs his forelock as he leaves.
In time, courtiers conjure themselves up;
You find yourself giving audiences
And practicing the common touch.
Before you know it, half of
Has fallen to your troops. Your mother,
Long thought to be dead, turns up
A leader of the anti-you underground.

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