|Oct/Nov 2003 • Poetry • Special Feature|
He was the Prince of Alameda de Las Pulgas
watching the parade through binoculars—
the minstrels, the showgirls, the drunkards.
He fingered remains of last night's dream,
the mementos of himself in a feathered mask:
a sprig of mint, glass beads, a ticket stub.
He turned on the stereo and listened for his name.