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...
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