Double crown
Wailing a song of no words, just savage
Delight, he takes two quick slugs,
Heedless of just how little there
Remains of lunch sloshing about
Inside, no longer absorbing the sour and
Instead of heightening his
Sense of pleasure, those last shots hurt.
Now his stomach has had enough,
Knows before his brain it cannot abide such
Knocking any more, so it shoots
Everything upward and a new song
Emerges, an upheaval inevitable
Yet unwanted, confirming his claim to
Royalty. His title: king of fools.
© Noel Sloboda | Other titles | Home | Submit
Noel Sloboda's writing has been in Studies in the Humanities, Waterways, remark, Tipton Poetry Journal, Penns to Paper, ShatterColors Literary Review, FRiGG, Boston Literary Magazine, Ghoti, Triptych Haiku, Underground Voices, and other places. He serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Festival and teaches at Penn State York.