Transient Thrones Poem by Bernard F. Asuncion

A throne,
not always gold, not always stone,
sometimes, a splintered park bench, sun-warmed,
where a pigeon, puffed and imperious, claims dominion.

A throne,
Sometimes, the driver's seat of a rusted truck,
a king of asphalt, a scepter of gear shift,
ruling the cracked highway's kingdom.

A throne,
the worn armchair by the window,
where a grandmother, eyes like ancient maps,
holds court with stories, weaving empires of memory.

A throne,
The hospital bed, a stark white podium,
where fragile power flickers,
a queen of breaths, a whispered decree.

A throne,
the teacher's desk, stained with ink and chalk,
a battlefield of equations and sonnets,
where knowledge reigns, and futures are forged.

A throne,
The stage, bathed in trembling light,
a performer's heart, a velvet cushion,
where applause echoes, a fleeting dynasty.

A throne,
not always inherited, not always desired,
but a space claimed, a moment held,
a quiet assertion,
a temporary reign,
over a kingdom of dust,
or dreams.