Lacerations

No, no, which was the first Richard,
Richard Two or Three?
For Shakespeare,
I mean, not historically.
I used to know things,
things like that.
I was once the annoying guest.
You know who I mean,
the Uncle
who stands above
the turkey bones
to prattle whole soliloquies.

But no, not now, not now, not now.
Now, they point and say,
“Down there, Sir,
your room’s the last one, right down there.”
But they lie.  That room
is not mine.
That room is his.  The stranger with
white hair.  Mine is black.
“Black silk hair,”
as Rosalind
might have descried,
before this mind went past repair.

©s rogers 24 September 2011
for Rob and for June (with thanks to Gordon)

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