The man beside him is of no real consequence. Polonius barely listens to him burp and laugh his way through the meal. He’s caught some inappropriate remarks about the Queen and several of the ladies of the court. He’s had his eyes on the king; he’s waiting to be summoned, if only with an unconscious expectancy – a single raised eyebrow will be enough to push aside this greasy carcass of a bird and leap to his side.

Meanwhile, the man beside him has moved on to court matters. Polonius nods occasionally so as to not have to pay attention. He has just about decided to get up anyway and simply ask the king if he’d summoned him, when the man next to him thumps him on the back and says something about Ophelia. Polonius turns around and asks the man, wrist deep in his capon now, what he’s just said. The man laughs again and bits of poultry fly out of his mouth.

“I said, how’s about your daughter with that Prince? There’s been all kinds of ducking behind doors, I hear. You don’t watch out, old man, and you’ll end up grandfather to a Prince, if only a bastard one!”
Polonius grits his teeth and snaps the capon’s breastbone in front of him. His dining companion slaps him on the back again and says, “Hey – I’m just joshin’ ya!”
Polonius smiles weakly.
“But I’ll get my wife to knit you some booties just in case.”
Polonius excuses himself, pushes his chair back from the banquet table and with a look to the King (still boisterously drinking and telling stories), he slides out of the room backwards.

Give me some of your private time, baby
And I’ll give you free audience and all my bounty.
Give me some of your private time
And I’ll give you some of mine
I’m free if you want to give your private time to me.

Marry, that very marry is what I meant to say. Marry, that this woman shall not marry this man
Or so it is given out.
Marry, she shall not marry
Because no matter how merrily she loves him,
He’s not meant to marry below him.
Why do we so love stories like these?
The forbidden other class
The servant girl who marries the prince
Or in this case – a humble courtier.
Sometimes it’s the princess with the stable boy
But only in erotica, really, or porn.
Are we all dreaming beyond ourselves?
Aiming at the prince beyond our station
Hoping to be seen
To be plucked up out of our place
And find ourselves transformed
Not just by life
But by society
By class
By the shifting of frame.

Everyone wants to know a secret.
I have discovered that if I want a group of people to be quiet,
I simply make the sound of a whisper
Or lean over to someone and make the whisp whisp sound of secrets passing.
I want to know the secret
That no one seems to know the answer to.
The Way, I guess.
And the Way cannot be known.
That’s what all the old teachings say
Or at least all the ones
That seem to understand something.
Something like how a breeze can carry a smell
Or a memory
Or both.

They tend the garden. They attend
At the door, awaiting instruction.
They offer you tenderness.
They tender you offers.
They tend to anticipate
Your every intention.
They intend to do you good –
For all intents and purposes –
No matter the trend.

This is the wind at my back.
This is what it whispers.
Sometimes it’s so quiet, I can barely feel it
And then it shouts and pushes
Until I have no choice but to follow its instruction.
The going, in and of itself, is not so powerful
Except when it is –
When the place I leave is rank and toxic
When the dysfunction infects everyone around it
Then the Going is powerful.
That’s when the people you leave behind
Tell stories of your going
That’s when they turn you into a hero
Of the Person that Went.