Dave Bonta's short poem begins with a tidy, almost bureaucratic idea: the speaker gives orders in order to feel a sense of order. It sounds like a simple wish for control, but the second half complicates it. The speaker compares themselves to a "rogue king" talking to his own face, as if issuing commands to a mirror, which is the only subject left to obey.
The final lines are where the poem turns. The king says he "was not received with respect" and that he "was a traitor." The sentence is slippery, and it's hard to tell who is accusing whom. The judge and the accused may be the same person, split into two by the reflection.
The mood is tense and a little lonely. The poem suggests someone trying to hold things together by sheer authority, while quietly admitting that this authority is self-made, unrecognized, and perhaps a form of betrayal against oneself.