DEFUNCT KING

Today, I needed to talk to my father
and I had to go forty miles to do this,
and it only cost a few slim quarters
down the pay phone’s throat.
Me, a little lighter in my pockets,
and my legs no more tired for it.
“Kill the Messenger,” they used to say. Well, now the messenger can keep his distance,
but there are still ways to drip poison down the ear of a king just turned defunct.