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Succession
I used to stand with him
among the budding clover.
I was King of the Park
and the young prince
rode my shoulders. We danced
amid a million dogwood angels.
We disturbed the dandelions
and sent them fleeing before our feet.
We harvested honeysuckle
and drank its delicate liquid.
Now he stands, holding his own
prince high. Whirling
round and round, they laugh
in the rust-colored shower
of needles that descend
from the godlike pines.
The princes dance over a fallen bed
of magic-dragon scales
while the withered King watches
from his weathered throne.
James A. Clark is a long-time resident of Nacogdoches, Texas, where he tries-and sometimes fails-to balance his time between family responsibilities, his education, and his writing. He’s been a shifty-eyed car salesman, a slouchy convenience store clerk, a sawmill hand and, for a few minutes, a telemarketer. Through it all, though, the single constant thread has always been the act of putting words on paper.
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