The King of Hatch Hall

Unmoving, the night holds inky blackness
But that is beyond the golden keep of His Majesty

I pluck a ginger strand from the pillowcase and discover it is neither
The same shade nor length as mine

Coverlets of crimson piled into a mountain around my thighs
I still lay parted, for he is not yet through

He is too much a king, I think, as he stands ripe before me
Hands pleased on his hips, a young Henry VIII

I pull him forward, the crown of his head cradled by my breasts
And he inhales the scent between them like an alchemist

Gasping, I writhe beneath him, a harlot with unbound hair
And wonder if his more wifely woman ever does the same

Accustomed to get what he desires
He pushes in

Seized, I clench his hard, hunting-made chest
Feeling every wild thrust, feeling a doe

Soulful blue eyes awaken my own
He is content with me, enjoys my body, but there is scarce love

Perhaps, I muse as he quickens his prick into me,
He will reward me with a small token tomorrow

Trenchant, hard, he drives into me for the last time
Then vanishes into his ten by ten demesne to wash his loins

I cover my nakedness and watch my very own Charles II
Signal me to leave the chateau with a gaze from his solemn, handsome face

Like a masquerade, I am required to mask my sorrow,
For my body is stirred, but person empty and unfilled

A peck on the cheek for the war-king Edward III
And I exit into the corridors of sterile hospitality

There is no breeze tonight, and I am very much alone
For he has his Irish wife and she has him

And I am a knockoff mistress,
A “pretty, witty” Nell Gwynn on a midnight campus