The King

 He sits upon his mossy throne
water trickles transparent chords
chrome wallows over muddy rut
a lazy liquid mirrored snake
dividing bluebell and bramble
like some long lost ley-line

attired in royal robes;
elastic dead, killed by murderous thumbs
dull grey socks, ankled at half-mast
mere collarets to plastic sandaled foot
knee-length britches, the colour
of ageless wear and tear
ripple and crease beneath
a shoddy shirt of undetermined blue
choices, choices, choices:
train stations were thought about
shouts of steam that billowed
from the iron spout
and whistled sweetly
into unprotected ears
flapping silent in a milk shake
made of boiling water
and insubstantial dreams

rodinesque, he ponders;
bus rides, park slides
mountaineering, traffic jeering
Mary Simms and long hot swims
a finger wends its way
into the regal nose
and plucks a soggy nugget
that is wiped upon the clothes

so many avenues for fun
many paths to dance down
the king decides to go to school
and rule his asphalt playground