Gold Leaf on a Cardboard Crown
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Gold Leaf on a Cardboard Crown
I wore my kingdom lightly—corrugated, rain-soft,
creased where I’d bent it to fit.
From a distance it gleamed:
gold leaf catching every generous sunbeam,
a halo applied with a child’s glue stick
and the patience of someone who needs to believe in shine.
Up close, you could see the ridges—
the shipping label half-peeled,
the barcode like a quiet prophecy of where I was headed:
Clearance.
I held court in the kitchen, knighted the sink,
declared the fridge a loyal subject.
My scepter was a wooden spoon
that knew too much about scraping bottoms.
The trick of it was posture—chin up, sorrow down,
wave to the imaginary peasants
who are really just mirrors waiting for honesty.
It’s hard to mourn what you’ve made yourself.
Harder still to admit the gold is thinner than breath,
that one good storm could democratize the whole affair.
Still, I polish the edges at dusk, watch the light pretend with me.
Even cardboard likes to feel chosen.
And if the crown collapses, soft as a sigh—
I’ll keep the flecks of gold on my fingertips,
proof I once tried to rule my small, trembling empire
with something like splendor.
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This poem's title is the seventh line from one of my earlier poems, that poem was made up of incomplete sentences, that somehow made great titles.
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