Dearest one, I am Prince Ashily Quatama

and I am in desperate need of your assistance.
Please email me back. Dear “Prince A,” you can kiss

my ass. You have got to be kidding me— why would I
wire you large sums of money from my bank account

for promise of a larger reward, to extricate you from
your obviously manufactured distress, especially when

your message is from an unverified IP address?
Even the leaves of a green money tree

would not turn over in shock or awe, pity or fear,
which Aristotle reminds us are the absolute essentials

of tragedy, that mode of imitation whose power
lies in narrowing the gap and moving us to human

sympathy for another. And in the perfect tragedy,
we all know the hero: he or she was always

one among us, the golden boy or girl who grew up
on the block, everybody’s sweetheart, most likely

to succeed; the one we envied for getting the most
valentines, the one whose yearbook overflowed

with XOXOXs and signatures. Nice gal,
all around sort of chap. Upright,

well-meaning yet he fails from some blind spot,
some flaw of character or judgment and so

stumbles doggedly toward what he thinks
is love or truth or justice, though ultimately

it leads to his downfall or demise. False prince,
this sort of difficulty therefore is hard to fake:

it’s existential. And there are just
too many holes in your narrative.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.