It couldn’t happen

but suppose the door-bell rang  -
you, greasy jeans, and thinking Trick or treat?,
another pizza flyer  -  and there’s
a uniform, the whole street blocked,
the gold-glass glitter of a coach
and four matched bays, shrinking Ted’s van
and Gupta’s 4x4, curtains
already twitching Who d’she think she is?
waving gloved hands  (oh, pigeon-breast,
those gloves!): 
                      Madam, the Prince awaits
                      your presence at the Ball.
                      Your fairy godmother has sent her coach.
the first impatience of a car
snarling its horn, the 88
(already late) giving the upstairs deck
a papparazzi view, a row of phones
fast-track to YouTube,

what would you do?

D A Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.