Avarice

It's raining outside.

Here is a king, resting in a lap:
Pure velvet. Cashmere throw.
The cork bows to his demands. It says,
"Sir, you have fabulous taste in years."
The broadsheet unfurls.
You can tell it's good news by his grin.

The downpour hammers its objections against the window.
The curtains are drawn.

From a carousel in a crystal cabinet,
A necklace winks seductively.
It belonged to a real duchess,
But he only acquired it for its gorgeousness.
He once caught his daughter embracing it.
"When you're older," he lied.

The skies are scourging the distressed panes
With thongs of liquid leather.
The king is oblivious.
He doesn't care.