Long Live the King

You crack your neck, and I think of what it'd be like if your head would snap from your shoulders and roll down the hall into a dark corner or something, alone and collecting dust and in a happier position atop the cold ceramic than ever above your punishing build.

Yet your Spine holds tight its precious King.

I envision you slumping in half like a one-slice pb and j, back crackling all the way to the hardwood, and staying that way so that my foot may help your high King release himself and make his escape.

To my dismay you do not fold or bend or move toward submission in any other

way, and my hopes fade as quickly as a Lily under your thumb.