Kings dance in the court,
and their laughter echoes like coins
carelessly tossed down on cavernous,
marble-floored great rooms.
The wine there pours out a kind
of deliverance, while they pose
waving from balconies and podiums.
And there are the picture-shows
of them with workers, listening,
shaking hands, open-collared,
willing to be a willing regular Joe,
as long as the cameras roll.
Their lips move in and out
of smiles, as if releasing birds
from between perfect teeth
with every hollowed out word.
And as their yawping lies make
headlines, the words of the real news
slips off the page and along the floor,
like the letters in an alphabet soup
served in homeless shelters.
There before those hungry doors,
and anywhere alms are needed,
each coin will stop its top-like turning
and return to pockets so deep
many hands may fit, but few can reach.
And one morning, citizens, staring out
over coffee for a way to peace,
will read a headline that one king
has proclaimed victory for all people,
under god. And those with jobs
will quietly get up and go to them