Let us not decorate the doom of kings
Whose bubbes forecast for them great events.
They mostly whined about the dearth of gold,
Misplaced dominions, and the gaucheries
Of bathrobes. Celebrate the concubines,
Whose cheeks, at least, were pink at either end.
A woman camped outside the coffee shop,
Atop a mountain of her own debris,
Swears she was once the Queen of Shangri-La.
No need to disagree. She crossed her heart,
Whispering to her phone, pennons at dawn
Creased by a zephyr, yaks upon the green
Below the castle wall, some blend of blue.
She's got a swatch she'll show you, the same shade.