He has reached his cold hands into his warm pocket,
grasped an old pouch with zippers and worn-down lining,
placed his eyes upon Elizabeth the Second,
a lady with greying hair and an simple, shining ring.
He tells her that she is departing from her perch in his domain,
That she will be taking flight, travelling south
as a bird would when the cold breath of winter whispers softly.
The young woman standing opposite the man inquires
if anything is the matter, for he exhibits a slight shudder,
a dark frown dividing the regions of his forehead,
his hands playing minor earthquakes on the cold countertop.
He stammers words of slurred, inconsistent, cloudy form,
Not feeling well, he concedes – sorry about the confusion,
I’ve got to go have a lie-down.
But first I will give you the Queen, the paper, the green.
It’s cold and dark. It numbs my hand.
Pursed lips, eyes twitch, he hands her the twenty-dollar bill,
the trade is done, and
he walks with a steady pace from the light of the store.
Have a nice day, she says, placing herself on the old conveyor belt,
drifting uncontrolled though the long, dark factory,
moulding to what the man says she must be.
The customer is always right.
He does not look back at her. Goodbye my Queen, he sobs quietly,
As the leather of his coat becomes damp with a single tear.
