light glinting off her crown, she draws

she floats down the cobble-
and when she sits, it's on majestic
cotton-ball clouds.

when she types, everything comes out
and not at all queenlike
or famously beautiful.

she enjoys feeling the sky-blue chalk between her fingers
and kneeling
and creating epics
on the sun-warmed concrete sidewalk.

her head is held up as if a heavy
pharaoh's crown
perched upon her intricate hair
and no one would ever guess

that she, a modern nefertiti,
would take pleasure in kneeling
before her words,
her subjects.