L’Écharpe

The way the fabric lies, its welcome deception

Is a flag and her chest is a nation;

At its capital lives a heart named Elation

And every of her rules is the exception.

The Queen’s draped in silk, and I’m a tailor

At the border awaiting the jailer…

The way a maverick dies is not by fire, no;

He goes down by pashmina and alone

With the écharpe noose, the same he was by her shown;

Her acknowledgement is all he can aspire to.

The Queen’s draped in silk, and I’m a tailor

At the border awaiting the jailer…

I wonder if she can taste my chortle from here

As her scarf billows up in my cry’s breeze?

Ev’ryone’s invited and awaits the reprise,

Then, like quivering thread, she says, “Hey, you down there…”

 “Come up, be near, warm your neck with this here;

Stay awhile, and pledge allegiance, please, dear.”