The regent, with his entourage,
Speaks for the boy, a king just weaned.
They name the city New Orleans.
A writer, writing without courage,
Is powerless. He has no prince
To siphon from and to convince.
Just average, he flounders, drowns.
But then, he cannot help but fail
To escape the doldrums, without sail.
Their eyebrows raise. Their mouths turn down.
They cannot understand his hints:
Not meat, but rather, condiments.
The crowds disperse. No royalty.
No lines form for this weaker tea.
A stately writer? No! A clown!
He might as well lay his pencil down.
The writer’s courage is his crown.
Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew