Be my guest, it’s fine.

There’s nothing here

Nothing sublime

Except a Sarah Vaughn album

I’ve nearly worn out

Playing through heartbreak

or cooking his trout before

he decided enough is enough of what

I don’t know that was not in my score

Although the libretto seems familiar

In that way when things feel off-kilter

And strangely apart from society

Or the norms in their khakis

And button downs, me, I’m imagining crowns

On heads, princesses, broken glass slippers,

Bloodied feet. No, be my guest, finally we meet.

end 7/12/2016

S. Darlington