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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Cultural · #2185261
The distance between the monarchy and the rabble.
Location, location, location
estate agents say
makes all the difference
between hovel and house.
How right they are!

Here I stand
anonymous in the throng of unwashed
as Her gilded carriage glides past.
She gives a Royal Wave
from Her velvet lined cocoon
while Her cracked lips force a smile.

She was born in a palace,
I on a farm,
so I must bend the knee,
and She must bear the crown.
A mere inch of bulletproof glass
separates us by a thousand years
of privilege and rank.

Does She fear the mob?
Is She trembling in her silk robes
wishing for a thicker barrier
and more armed guards?

Maybe not.

I wave back and give a toothy smile,
wondering if she longs
for a revolution
to end her rule.

History traps her where she is,
just as much as you or I,
in a vehicle of someone else's choice
which resembles prison transport
transferring her from one gaol cell to the next.
A padded cell, perhaps,
but with thick walls, heavy doors
and gaolers all the same.

35 lines

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