Sunday, December 13, 2009
The clack clack of stick in the pickets,
Scepter held by boy with curly black hair,
Percussive announcement of self-named king,
Followed by a rag-tag train in tow.
He stands on a crate near graveyard fence
Arching up his chest,
Then thrusts his fist and shouts
That of the living and the dead he’s the ruler.
Silent cold air shakes branches above
A leaf or two drop in swinging arcs
The waiting band snap-eyes and bolts
Through the bang of a swinging gate.
They shoot along the old maid’s house
Tumble down to the backyard empty,
Past the barking of the blind dog
Piling on to inward’s next dominion.
Scrapped up and flung over broken fence
Curly haired king now toppled and uncrowned,
Next boy hooks staff and takes the lead
To the place marked X on the next king’s map.
December 13, 2009