Old Coin

We hardly saw his noble, profiled head.
Eager young spendthrifts, we neither knew nor cared
that history and monarchy were in our hands.
We gave them up for sweets that we all shared.

His face is weathered now; he is alone
in exile, far from his subjects or throne,
still impassive, though perhaps he dreams
of decimal republics overthrown.

David Whippman

If you have any comments on this poem, David Whippman would be pleased to hear from you.