Like one of those infante kings
Velasquez drew to show you
what he really thought
about the strutting
he was seeing: a tiny king
who looks serene, until close up,
you see he's sad; but with the brightest,
slyest eyes, as though he found it
wildly droll that all the dark, untidy types
pressed about him, posturing, pretending
to admire his robes were dying to be ventriloquists,
I think you know the rogues I mean:
the red-capped Duke; the Duchess, stiff
from too-much-Duke; the twins-in-robes;
all so intent on throttling him
that not a soul among them saw
the dark, unraveling tapestry
slithering down behind them all
like a relentless, endless scream.