He is a poor father,
old man Lear,
a time-addled fool
grown over with age.
He was always mad –
it’s nothing new.

When we were children,
we ran from him, Regan and I;
fled down dark halls
from his vile whiskered embrace,
fled his beatings
and wild spitting turns,
fled long nights
of boring dinners of State.

We hid with each other’s ambition,
sat on the throne
and farted,
pretending it was ours
to share,
to keep.

Nobody ever came to find us.

It was always dark
and motherless quiet here,
filled with the sounds of sweaty men and dogs,
nothing to do all day but sew
and grow tough.