View from the Top

On Saturday mornings
after the yolk has been mopped up
by the crusts of buttered toast

and your eyes have been wiped 
clean of sleep and dreams
with the backside of your hands,

it is best to sit lonesome 
on a hill overlooking the city,
with a pen in your hand

or perhaps with a book of poetry on your lap.
You can read one about the pomposity of old kings
who refused to lie down naked on the grass

and enjoy the luxury of their own backyards. 
You chuckle quietly to yourself
while sunshine roasts your neck hairs.

And if fortune may have it,
a body of water will play nearby (any puddle will suffice)
as children roll down the dewy slope.

You can look out at the skyline
in the smoggy distance 
and know that if you wait long enough

the sun will fall,
the children will slumber,
and you will be alone again with Cassiopeia. 

She will sing your eyes to sleep,
And block out the moonbeams
with one of her many shadowed arms

as she slowly reaches down
furious on her infinite throne
and removes her crown from your peasant head.

© Matt Beanish