Imported

I orient my eye toward a throne,
some cheap Chinese papasan
propped before the picture window,
sturdied for the fattest potentate,

at left his personal laundry hamper,
his ice cream suit worn only once
to be burned in the wicker vessel
with socks, soiled undies, jock du jour.

And what about el jefe's bath towels?
Are there cubbies enough for a king?
Wicker shelving does the trick (his plebs
covertly drinking bathwater for power).

Grab fistfuls of commodious blue goblets
from that farther aisle for kitchenware,
proper for aqua minerale at state dinners,
also doable for wine, and emptied,

iridiscent as polluted sunsets on bridges
or voids chased with comet trails,
glittering when crushed on a cul-de-sac
on which bare feet could bleed.

Save crystal for his abhorrence of vacuums,
distract him with the frosted scrolls
that masquerade as light released
from the bluest gloomiest glaciers.

However, this is no one-stop shop
without a hospital tunic or a shroud,
no eucalyptus leaves for his innards,
pomade or greasepaint for flash-bulbs

or ceremonial silver spade for ashes
ladled in the urn at the throne’s foot,
straw too, its cover unsecured, floppy--
for dried flower brooms, bric-a-brac.