1660 c/o Lily Dawn

Oliver Cromwell's Head 
He stares back at us,
rotting up there
on his twenty foot pole.
The children laugh,
making fun of him
by throwing pebbles,
betting on who will be the first to
land one in his hanging jaw.
He is defenseless,
unlike when he killed King Charles
and crowned himself "Lord Protector."

You will rest up on that pole,
Mr. Cromwell,
for another twenty five years,
(save for the momentary removal for a quick roof repair)
until a strong-winded storm comes
to set you free.
For two hundred and seventy five years,
you will come to know the British museum circuit well,
until finally, some day,
you will be dropped back into the dirt,
three hundred years after you were lifted out of it.