Queen in the Crook

I’ve a queen in the crook of my arm, my arm,

a queen in the crook of my arm – who is not

now evincing much charm, much charm,

since she’s feeling no little alarm, alarm

claustrophobically crammed in that crook.

This wasn’t the look to which we’d both agreed

when I took her away with a promise to heed

every clause in her creed, to be treated

according to strict protocol, always laudably

shown to her own best effect. I forsook her,

displayed disrespect in the way I waylaid

and portrayed her: subordinate player to me

and the bend of my late-middle-aged-naked

elbow. I might just as well have discarded her,

carted her off to a dissolute barn in a farm.

But queen, oh my queen! I do plead with thee

please to be seen as I see you: the pulse

at the heart of our magical kingdom, less mine

than it’s yours: in the pores of my nakedness –

yes! (and oh no) – not remotely disarmed

by deodorant. Comme vous êtes francaise,

I had hoped you’d be pleased by the unmasked

aroma of man-on-his-knees to the ruler he’d

move flesh and soul to appease. Then, of course,

that tight squint and un-ladylike sneeze.

I’ll clean up and get out the Febreze.

.