The queen is dead; I’ve wanted to write a poem,
but haven’t known exactly where to start.
She wasn’t mine, I didn’t know her, I think
monarchies are quaint relics of the past.
And yet, she was something to me even
though I don’t know what, some kind of symbol,
maybe, of an older order, crumbling,
but not yet buried by centuries of dirt.
For longer than I’ve lived she was enthroned,
a fixture like her namesake Spenser worshipped,
but something more if something less. Always
there, solid, something to depend on,
whether in respect or parody, when the world
had ceased to make any sense at all.
Copyright 2022
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 