Molasses pours down like an asp from his divan
his eyes as wise as the ancient kingdom
then trickles northward like the Nile,
past zebras, lions, giraffes and bears
(Ben’s stuffed dolls, whom he rules as well)
and through a misted torrid-zone jungle
(Edie’s clippings, ferns and potted palms)
to the sliding glass wall of his palace;
spies cousins wild and other aliens
hopping through, flying round, over the rushes
(exotic grass, the latest in landscaping).
The creatures thrive, oblivious to Pharaoh.
I behold and tend the coffee.
The Sun pops like an overgorged god
and oranges the banks of his demesnes
in a bath of imperial splendour.
Overnight rain rivers from the eaves.
The can openerererrrrr almost tears him away
but too much in the east is going on.
Tail agog with flatteries and kowtows
he quite forgets the golden bowl
with his damascened name which is brimming now.
He must appear to his supplicants,
consider more conquests, and postpone the perks
of the Molassic Dynasty, as his forefathers did.
So Edie and I watch him twitch his tail,
sipping our elixir from Arabia,
reading the daily Dispatch to him
till Ben comes down, all flannel, drowse and muss,
and, with a giggle and single stroke,
turns the king into our cat. He’s learned
to love so much that we can’t help
but love Molasses too, his monarchy,
and mornings.
