There’s no more bread
and the waters grown salty.
There’s rust in the pipes
and the plants have turned brown.
The phone’s off the hook and
the leaves, they float in the pool.

Kat’s playing tag with the girls in the kitchen.
Mom’s still in bed and Dad’s M.I.A.
What’s good for the king isn't always as good for you.

The boys brought us bud
and a book full of matches.
They live down the street and sell mom’s favorite pills.
A spark is in bloom,
in pink and burnt chartreuse.

With this crown,
a hand-me-down.
Son, this shame should fit you well.

Blue-green eyes, are
a thin disguise,
if you know what is good for you.

Smoke makes its way to the cross in the hallway.
The paint starts to peel, where an old clock once faced.
The handle is white from the heat of the night.

Branded in stone.
Narrowed in bone.
Your father once had the same Lidocaine eyes.
Where is he now?
He's still gone for the weekend.

Mom's still in bed and the kitchen's on fire.

This isn't my life.
Life's a blind recital
where the throne can borrow what you have
from both halves.

The sky lights the scene
that our home lay in ashes.
Father's been back for an hour or two
What’s good for the king isn't always as good