The Emperor

He flings his coat and tie  
like his father flung bottles  
when he was five.  

“Why are you crying, boy?”  


With a flick, T.V. plays  
the Colts against the Saints.  
His father roared when Peyton  
still played and whiffed   
the pass. He roared louder  
when he saw the emperor’s doll.   


“Are you a girl or somethin’?  
Get rid of that shit  
or so help me God.”  


T.V., switch channels:  
a person prepares a  
big frosted cake. The emperor  
enjoyed baking tall cakes  
with yellow and white  
buttercream with his mother.  
The father yells again.  


“Why are you making our boy a sissy?  
Come on boy,   
I’ll show you how to grill like a man.”  


The emperor looked at his tiny porch,  
the grill his father bought him keeled  
over blocking the porch door.  
He missed being able to read  
Toni Morrison on warm Sundays.  


He opens his fridge, barren  
except for some Chinese  
leftovers and a six pack  
of Guinness. He cracks one  
open. His father would say  


“A real beer is something you can’t see through.  
You know real beer, son.”  


The emperor looks over his  
kingdom: a 1 bedroom apartment  
covered with clothes, pizza boxes  
and trash bags; his couch with  
cushions like sagging aged breasts  
covers a dirty wood floor.   


He sits on his throne, an old  
La-Z-Boy recliner with fake  
brown leather. And in the dark,  
where no one can see him,  
he weeps.  

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