Frederick

Poor Frederick
astraddle his white charger, quite
a figure on the battlefield, once.
Now grown old
he mopes about the palace
in slippers, if he can find them,
barefoot, if he can't,
complaining about the dust,
bothering the staff.
Still, he rouses
at the sight of red and blue-gold braid
and, of course, a schako.
I would abandon the place, forthwith,
but he is, after all, king.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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