Somewhere in England,
there is a poet scratching
at a piece of paper on which
he has written a poem
in dedication to the new
Royal Couple. Meanwhile,
I lie in bed in America
and it is 12:30 AM, and all
I can do is write silly poems
that you will never read
and write around things I will
never actually write. It all seems
so unimportant when
there is a poet somewhere
in England, and tomorrow –
no, today – the Royal Bride
lies in bed and stares up,
counting the ceiling tiles
and the seconds left
of her single life.
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