Emperors

Ways the wetness ended
Sneaks upon the last broom from out of the closet of my childhood.
And I never drank the nectar, but always let the last lights seep
Out of the back door and onto the willows,
Which crawl downward up the street to the back-place of every friend I have ever known.

This is my history, out of talent and predisposed to despair. I cry to no one in particular, but to the colorful breeze which lands in my hair like a bonnet of reeds.
Fluffy, daybreak, letters to the wind. I smoke occasionally, but don’t inhale.
My head is topped open to the sky, and wind
Shears near here, freer than the everglades where the Trumps live.
All those golds to the sky, and I sit and sip margaritas with the chosen ones,
Chosen by their own breaths and nobody who cares.
The reaching emblem, the dessicated space, the clamoring specter of line-driven snow
And powder of fine silked clothes which used to be worn by emperors who are now dead and
Naked as they ever were.