King of Rutledge

Every morning ‘neath warming Dixie sky, upon his porch does the King of Rutledge hold his court in plaid and gray. Two felines pay homage at his feet, (last night’s pan of ham and greens licked clean), as squirrels leave home by fascia hole — a hurried zig-zag scurry toward yawning oak. 

Commence the civic symphony: the king upon his rocking seat presides six feet above the street, where hails of every kind arise from passersby both age-old loyal and nouveau wise. Fashion-forward mother waves, as rattling stroller tires brave the crooked pavement of the king’s domain. And toothless, booze-bound angel gives staggering salute before scooting off to corner store to score his daily hooch. 

The painter in his whites alights from twisted six-speed bike to compliment the pine straw beds within the rusting iron fence. 

“How’s your mama?” the regent asks, knowing full that pops had passed not two weeks to the day.

“Mama’s good,” the smiling reply, though truth’s revealed in bloodshot eyes. “The flowers sent were awfully kind.”

“Off you go, now, don’t you mind.” His queen, too, left him behind to rattle about two-story castle.

A sip of life from emerald mug. A Baptist hymn he hums in harmony with mufflers growling. Commuters crowding the crescendoing lane below.  Horns blow. And from down-rolled windows come whistle calls, bellowed “Ho’s” and serenaded “Hey’s” — a circadian parade fit for a king. The church bells ring.

Oh, such grandeur, sadly, is merely shadow — a paltry show — an echo of thirty years ago, when the avenue teemed and storefronts gleamed and southern charm was in full supply. But my, how time has run it dry. Downcast eyes replaced the smiles, and joggers busy tracking miles, too preoccupied to give the king his due. The laundromat boarded up its doors, and the corner store no more billowing coffee, greasy bacon, (a royal faire), now only rustling up lotto sales; no ID checks, but cashing checks at twenty percent. 

He sips and wonders where his kingdom went.

Relentless sun waxes, and street greetings wane as the work whistle drains Rutledge of inhabitants. The four-legged attendants — grown dull in the lingering lull — exit the dais stage left in search of urban vermin beneath the deck boards. The monarch, too, is getting bored: he’s shown his grace and been adored, shed a tear for days of yore. And the atmosphere has begun it’s boil, just as empty stomach roils. Sinew, muscle, and brittle bones slowly lift him off his throne. To kitchen shuffles, ignites the stove, prepares a soup — the queen’s hambone. He’ll eat alone.