The King is Dead
by Stella Jones
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I eat the old Kings
toast still warm
as he grows colder
by the minute.
The King is dead
long live the King?
Half hoping
my manchild
eagerly smiles
Ladies..
Let me tell you
of the son
who eavesdrops
at our bedroom
door,
listens for my sighs
(with doleful eyes
that fawn.)
Longs for
a taste
a first glimpse
of love,
romance
a guiding star.
Me.
He is
too young
too straight
too unused
not exciting at all.
Unlike the father
who lay content
in my arms.
I calm him,
my manchild
so softly,
kiss-whisper
"there's no need
no need at all
to weep or wish
for what can never
be yours."
It was all
so very simple
as I packed
my bags
and walked
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