The Wardrobe of Kings (Poem) ~ For Random Learning Comes

First published in April 2018, this poem was inspired by a book review in the New York Times discussing former FBI director, James Comey’s, recent book about his experiences in government.

The poem is voiced, with great artistic license, from what I imagine to be Comey’s point of view, as he addresses his boss, shortly before being fired.

I include it in my series Sixty Days, to remind us of the many people who have come and gone in the past four years, the vast majority of them, decent and dedicated public servants.

In this poem, I imagine Comey as some sort of white knight, trying to run his agency in an honorable way.

I hope you enjoy this playful interpretation of events. Events that are now being re-interpreted as a Showtime movie.

The photograph above is of an Apostle Iris, since I refer to Comey as an apostle of order, of the rule of law. As in, a dedicated, loyal follower not of a single person, but of principle.

Whether his actions actually live up to that title, is up to history to decide. He is blamed by many on the left, as the one who lost the election for Hillary Clinton by appearing before Congress on the issue of her emails, shortly before the election.

The “Wardrobe of Kings” refers to the FBI, which is the Federal “Bureau” of investigation, as in a chest of drawers or wardrobe. And of course, we all know a silly fairy tale, about the clothes that kings, or emperors, sometimes wear.

Thanks for coming by to read!

Apostle of order,

Knight-errant at law,

I have writ here

My final epistle:

I find you repellant.

I find you unethical,

To all of Earth,

Antithetical.

You clamber the cherry

Tree, picking the facts.

Dissembling is now

The new normal.

Every day I count six

Falsities or mis-leadings

That spew from your

Pursed lips, infernal.

Inspired by a robber

Who held me at gunpoint

In childhood, I soon

Was a squire,

Tasked with keeping the stronger

From maiming the weaker,

I guard independence

With law.

I saw much to appall me,

A show, playing nightly:

The boredom of torture

And capture,

While campaigns were a-waging

And pols were engaging

In duels, such gore

Bringing rapture.

Still, a soldier for Truth,

I squandered my youth

At the Bureau,

The wardrobe of kings.

I shield law from politics,

Fairly try heretics,

Ploddingly,

Wait in the wings,

While you twist and you stretch it—

I can’t help but wretch—I

Recoil at the sight

Of such things.

Still, you speak to your circle,

So silent, assenting,

A mirror, deaf-blind

To all else.

They’re all longing to follow.

Your word is their mantra.

They insist that the rest

Must be false.

And now,

What would you have of me?

Some oath of loyalty?

Kissing the ring

And conspiring?

I despair at your arrogance,

Slouching towards wickedness,

Torches ablaze at

Assizes.

I would gladly, gladly,

Galloping gallantly,

Lop off your crown

For the prizes,

Were it not for the litany

Of my own wickedry:

Was it not I

Who baptized you?

For the rest of the series to date, see Sixty Days. For another poem about a man on a horse, this one in Kinshasa, back when it was part of the Belgian Congo, see Statues.