A Show of Respect

I am thinking about Elizabeth II. Perhaps because I'm working on another poem about the Royals or maybe because I'm on my way to London later this week. Whatever the reason, I'm simply reminded of her.

A Show of Respect

Scolded into listening to an ancient

radio airing solemnity and pomp,

a lad of ten fiddled with a homemade

rubber-band gun, refought WWII

and stopped the Japanese invaders.

A day off from school more valued

than the coronation of a Queen

half-a-world away.

Singapore, a British colony, still

dotted with dirt floor huts and wads

of spittle on the street.

After the Brits pulled out

and a refashioned flag waved,

after teardown of tottering kampongs,

after Prada, Coach, and Tiffany opened,

after his committed move to America

allegiance to this Monarch persisted

like a whisper's shadow.

When Elizabeth II died at 96, he roused

himself predawn, groaned-off his own

telltale aches of aging,

and honored the Queen by marking

her funeral in real time streamed live

from London.

iPad fixed in his hands, morning paper

beside him. This time he paid attention.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Wiped Clean

On our trip to Japan I was again reminded of the biometrics that come into play, especially my fingerprints. I know the poem is a repeat but it remains apropos.

Wiped Clean

"Wash your hands!" tagged me

like words stitched to my shadow:

admonishments from my mother

postings in public restrooms

moralizing in med school

and caveats about Coronavirus

So I lathered and rinsed, soaped

and soaked. And my fingerprints slowly

sloughed off. Of dubious import to me

but not so for the Feds. A glitch

in their game plan.

After a delay, my partial prints okayed. But

in these cynical times white-bread me

wonders if I had darker skin would it be

more problematic?

Marlyn Aschoff Mellor