I dressed in black
for the midnight flight
and black was all
I packed.
to join the reverent
mass convened
in love and sorrow
for the fallen king.
Lancome and Prada
vanished from
the giant screens
above the plazas
and the small ones
on the Skytrain.
Instead they streamed
the solemn funeral
procession as
the golden royal chariot
bore the golden urn
to the golden crematorium.
And the people clad in black
gathered in the shelter
of the lotus-crenelated walls
of the grand palace
watched and wept
in the morning
sun and shadow
as the chariot
pulled by two hundred
men dressed in red
rolled so very very slowly,
sadly, to the final site.
By dusk, the black tributaries
of mourners had swollen
through the streets
and alleys to the parks
and temples, the squares
and monuments, the streams
became rivers pooling at the places
where they waited for hours
to place sandalwood flowers
on the ceremonial pyres
in honor of His Majesty
and his life.
And I thought about
one of his projects
that we had visited
a few years ago,
where coffee and melons
and cucumbers
and other good things
had replaced the poppy.
A rainstorm had suddenly descended
so we dashed under a shed
and watched the rain
bounce like diamonds
on the pavement.
And just as suddenly
it stopped and steamy vapors
drifted up into the trees.
He was a kind and good man
dedicated to his people
and they to him.
my favorite images of the king
are the one where he
was playing a saxophone,
and the one with his faithful camera
and his finger poised in thought.
