Queen

She left the hospital
On Monday morning
For the highest bungalow
That stood on the corner
Of Mother Teresa Street.
She left behind little things
She didn't need anymore.
Her hair clips, her green gown
The books she read
Her little prop-up table
That she ate her meals on
The flimsy ring her man
Did not think before giving
For purple was not her colour.
And the little bloodied bag
In the trash, that was found
By a ragged hag the next day
To be moving, and possessing
A vagina.