january 30

the most regal of rulers
sit cross-legged
on earth’s carpet.
to the grass,
those official officials are
but another weight
under which to bend,
another canvas to stain
with their piney pigment.
the ocean will not
slow its tides
for the sake of a badge
or a medal,
the sun will not
dim its rays
at the squint of an oath,
the desert will not
bubble into blue
at the dropping of ink
onto proper paper,
the clouds will dump
their drenching
on the dandiest
of duty-doers
and the trees
will form their roots around
the stakes they hammer
in the ground.

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