There is little left of his hip —
Afflicted since he was a pip
In a leg brace, he would trip
On the curb, crossing the street.
He’d never been strong or fleet.
The clouds followed him
Above oceans he could swim
With a few strokes of his arms,
Setting off foreign alarms.
The highest mountains bent
Upside down for his ascent.
Only he knew where he went.
I left the slip in a small boat
With no oar or rudder to steer
On the knight’s castle moat.
The sail drooped, empty and sere.
I was drawn on, always slower —
A current from a series of weirs
Dropping me lower and lower.
I was passed by a fast ship.
Its captain made faces: grins, glowers.
I shot down another weir’s lip.
It took all I had to stay afloat.
Near sunset, I glided into the slip
Where I began this anecdote.
