Koon Woon
In my little room the emperor removes
his robe and we chat
about the mechanics of winning
an election.
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” he said.
While the moon is out above the dilapidated
warehouse, he asks me the profundity
of going to the moon and back
to the same ghetto room.
If it pleases your majesty, I said,
the gods make the ghettoes.
“I am King,” said the emperor, “I shall
have no gods.”
And he shook, nearly spilling the Oolong tea.
When he had calmed down enough, I dropped
two lumps of sugar in his cup.
He then marvelled at my calculus book and integration
theory and digital watch.
“Had I one of those,” he said, “I would have timed
my crossing the Rubicon at eighteen,
and what barbarian woman would not give herself
for that!”
He yawns imperially over
my utensils, books, and the cot
and asks me to cross the Rubicon with him
and I nod while doing tax equations for his majesty
because the hour is late.
He is delighted with the hot chocolate
that I made on the hot plate
and after making a rough estimate of the roaches
on the wall, he sleeps on my cot
as a sovereign would.
I rattled my typewriter like a machine
gun all night, partly because it was my
habit, and partly to protect my friend
the emperor, for though he had crossed
the Rubicon with the bravest of men,
he had yet to sleep a single night
in the ghetto.
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