He is the invisible man. His strength a hushed whisper overshadowed by feminism or the piercing pain in her song. Scattered notes torn in half with thoughts unspoken and slavery chords not so easily broken. The patent leather image of mama and the broken-down brotherhood of papa. I know only because it’s painted on the palms of his hands where oppression carved her words of degradation in his face. This invisible man. This King without a throne. This sovereign without a scepter. This hero without a robe. This waiting beacon of royalty with nothing to rule, waiting in the wings of Eagles. I can see it in his eyes, the invisible tears. They say men aren’t supposed to cry so he is bottled fury. I can smell rage in the language of his captivity, the walk in his stride, and the hustle in his teeth when he smiles but dear King, today is your day. This morning, over cups of coffee and spoken words I will sing for you. You are important today. You are acknowledged today. Today the brotherhood reigns; I give you the permission to rule from my pen.