Dave Bonta's poem asks a simple question, "which thing is a king?", and then refuses to give a grand answer. The first reply is a loop: "The king is a king." Kingship, it suggests, is mostly a word, something caught in a net of language and wrapped ("girt") in more words. The king is even a "cover for the king," so the title hides the person underneath.
Then the poem shifts to small, humble images. A lord swapped for "an old hat," a "plain moth," a "chance tenant," a "familiar street at night." Power shrinks into something worn, fragile, temporary, or just ordinary.
The speaker seems curious and a little wry rather than angry. They sound like someone gently poking at an idea until its grandeur falls away. The mood is quiet and dreamlike, with a mild playfulness. By the end, the king feels less like a ruler and more like a feeling you might have walking home in the dark.