Kings

(excerpt)
by Michael Dickman

Our crowns look nothing like his crown

needles and light and
needles of light
fingers
stamen

Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash
or ripped out by hand

Our capes are bath towels
wrapped around our  necks
and fastened with
giant safety pins

Not ermine, not
rabbits

I ran around the neighborhood playing King of the Block
in my red underwear

The trees didn’t bow

I was not on fire
as he

passed by