The morning he looked the mirror in the eye and did not shave
he dropped the whole bag of sugar onto his bowl,
catapulting a slalom of milk over his neck and shirt.
When they first noticed the gauze, word went out:
the job's getting to him. Looks ten years older.
Personal life in disarray - wife's done a runner.
When it had an undeniable presence,
and could not be disregarded as a lapse of concentration,
his wife did a runner.
When he'd cultivated a ringmaster,
his spider-plant died and he was arrested and put on trial
for crimes that were never explained to him.
When it graduated to Bismarckian,
there was a revolution. His home was burned down.
The Republicans discovered him behind a curtain,
forced him to act as their puppet king.
Now he sits in his empty throne room,
pursing his lips to whistle.
The battering ram at the door is a thunderous heartbeat
and he hunches over the plate of mirror,
jowels a lemon meringue pie,
Bic almost electric in his hand.
