Sketch by Holly Jones

I claim you like a pebble on a beach.

You are a smooth weight in my hand carried for a period of pleasure then forgotten,

captive in a dusty bottom drawer.

 

I claim you like a daisy from the ground.

Your tether is severed, so easily plucked,

to be tucked behind an ear to ornament my hair,

tossed away when wilted.

 

I claim you like an image from the internet.

Your pixilated likeness is consumed, subsumed and expelled.

After a le is closed for the final time does it cease to exist?

 

Your presence is transient; purpose to fulfil a fleeting whim.

You are temporary, disposable, faceless.

I am enduring, sumptuous, cardinal. Do men still bow if there is no queen watching?

 

Not yet, but they will.