The room,
cooled against
the high desert heat,
could conceivably have been,
in other, ancient times,
a place where princely progeny
were handsomely hatched,
an event triumphant
to be met by approving
and most churchly chimes-
or so fantasized our chum Charles,
stepping dreamily out into the gloaming.
Draped in and dragging was he
an oversized bedcover behind-
which masqueraded as a regal robe-
while he surveyed, roamed and reigned
the mountains distant
so swathed in post-sunset,
salmon pinks that impressed
his fantastic mind no end.
He and she, a nudely two
( more chaste than lewdly, true)
swayed and ambled on the porch,
wrapped in the weird warp
of time outside of Time,
that sated State which weaves itself,
by divine starts and turns,
with deftest touch,
through a well-lived life.
The buzz of Bugsy's
wet-dream, sinly city was
but a mumbly murmur
next to the sweet and
serendipitous presence
of his petite true love's
pretty, satisfied sighs...
the heat was like some
liquid, amniotic déjà vu
surrounding and supporting them,
their little blissed-out
musings and mewlings
spinning miraculous imageries
before their dream-drunk,
easily believing eyes...
at which point,
in the broader view,
within the large arc of all events,
it seemed not too silly a thing
to see her, so womanly fair,
so comely, as naught but Queen,
and he one humbled,
enamored aspirant of a King.
