The King Sleeps

in remembrance of John Lennon

The King sleeps with his underwear on,
But not John. Something in him rejoices
At any break in the scheduled program.

Some kind of burning thirst motivates his search
For higher ground, outer limits, inner reality—
All the fuzzy, indistinct places

Where a mouse might serve as an elephant, in a pinch.
Maybe he just doesn't like to take life literally,
When the figurative aspects are where the fun's at.

Later he can look back, remember, abstract, resolve—
But now the hunt is on, and he will be among
The first to catch the prize.

©2016 Michael Fraley

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