The Queen

The Queen sits crossed legged.
Stoic.
Stone cold.
Looking out her new kitchen windows.
Remodeled, redone, retreated.
Nothing old anymore.
No soul.
No story.
Just like her.

She doesn't recall her life.
She doesn't remember the details.
She doesn't like a mess.
She likes her things.

She walks the castle admiring the kitchen.
Granite.
Steal.
Imported from Italy.
Terribly modern.
Terribly perfect.
Tea cups nestled in German saucers.
She doesn't drink tea.
Linens folded, sleeping in plastic wrapping.
She does not eat.
Silver flatware swaddled in green velvet.
She doesn't entertain.
No people.
No children.
No animals.
Not for The Queen.
Old people are allowed if necessary.
With notice.
Of course.
She is obsessed
With wrought iron.
Everywhere, curly-cues in California Modern
Swallow the windows
Like ivy overgrown
Redirecting story tellers away.
She does not write anymore.
She does not remember her family.
She cannot recall.
Her family does not remember her anymore.
They do not visit.

There were too many rules.
No playing.
The wallpaper may smudge.
No running.
The carpet may wear.
No laughing.
Her head might ache.
The Queen
The Queen
The Queen

Her hair is dyed on Mondays.
Her shopping day is Tuesday.
She cuts the pink roses on Friday.
Her left eye twitches on Saturday afternoon.

When nervous or attacked, she holds her hand flat against her chest.
Composed.
Designated.
A European painting.
The Queen speaks in quiet tones.
Muted apologies.
Robotic.
Insincere.

The Queen is ugly.
Her children are failures.
Her grandchildren are too many.
The castle has no mirrors.

The King has slept through reconstruction.
He wakes.
The King sits crossed legged next to The Queen looking out her new kitchen window.