Issue 17, April 1998
Peter Casey - Poem

The King of Grant Park
Has no loyal subjects,
Unless one counts the trees.
Waving their fickle colors in the breeze.

He has no train of courtiers
Asking for dispensation of favors
It is he who asks, bleary eyed,
for cigarettes,
pocket change,
food,
Or a joint.

Slow witted tippers of ugly bottles say,
With liquor on their breath,
When the King sobers up,
He takes the bus to see his wife.

His Queen lets him bathe, change his clothes,
Sign over his government check,
Sleep in her bed.
They fuck and drink and argue.
Happy to be together
For a couple of days.

The King of Grant Park
For cash under the table
Stops kids from shooting each other,
Restores old houses,
Rescues dogs from Animal Control.

The kids he stops for free.

The King of Grant Park
sleeps under Picnic Pagodas
Smokes his dope on the porches of friends
And rises every morning higher than the sun.