by Ed Shacklee

Who will steer the cart?
The holes are small; the greens, long.
Playing golf is hard.

When you are a star
they let you do anything.
Not women: voters.

My name, in gilt, stamped
on building after building
as dogs piss on trees.

This house is a dump.
Why am I here—it was built
for common people.

Now that I am king,
my heels are dogged by a fool.
Look, there: that shadow.

The day I was crowned
I grew angry at the sound
of one hand clapping.