Alexander The Pretty Good

a poem about potential for triumph and/or death

Photo by Tucker Monticelli on Unsplash

Still a boyish bubbled thirty-three
Alex woke up pretty late,
completely and pretty still, doing pretty great
underneath mother Macedonia’s Vergina Sun and brightburning sky
undisturbed, not that much world
at stake. not that much
on his golden plate — armor, around here — somewhere he
swears, someday — he’ll own all
of everything. At least that’s what Mom said.
If he could just manage to escape
his grand canopy bed.
Just 33, he’d be
Emperor, God, Alexander the Great
Alex the already dead.