If I were a poet
and could write in a fine hand
I'd pen my love a poem
only she would understand

I'd compose it down at the shore
where the waves always come back to me,
like my reflections of her

VICTORIA

A knock on the door, she was early, perhaps late
From two centuries ago, she was actually here
A young Princess, a famous Queen soon to be
Sitting down demurely at the small dining table
With slight German accent, but still well spoken
An appetite seemingly held in reserve this night
When a friend asked if she was ready to rule
In silence, she smiled and nodded with grace
But her powerful determination was very clear
A modern woman for the age, but eager to learn

Where?
Down near Highway 50
I’m flying South,
My tires came off in the North.
And East is running,
And West was shot down.
I forgot I was here,
When was I ever,
On highway 60
With the bones of society,
With the pope's lips of piety
Stomping on highway 40
Where brown and white infants lay,
Where president’s tap, tap
On a child astray
Where?
Through to the West,
Not quite South,
Not quite East.
I’m on the road with the priest,
To pray for his sins

I know what it is to feel alone
Like the first star in the universe
Anxiously burning; solitary
Waiting in bright anticipation
Longing for yet nascent kin