May

Issue 32

One who dwelled beyond the sea, Crutch in hand, in ragged threads, Lurched through years in misery-- His neighbors jeered and shook their heads. Scarcely apt to raise his eyes-- Sadness there, in pleasure’s stead-- He tripped on, by all despised, On clumsy feet, as light as lead. Dragons resting on men’s bones, Bellies bare from wanting fare, Waking, visited those zones And found a bounty yielding there. Swooping down they swept them up, Hungrily, their smoky lungs Searing them with scorched hiccups, Their victims bound with sizzling tongues. Islanders on hillsides strewn Swatting, weak, availed not much. But the pauper, lame, impugned, Stood thrusting his ungainly crutch, Saved his shack and shabby wife, Shooed the scaly brood away, Kept his land and wretched life, And lived to wake another day. Dawn came gray in that cloaked place. Many living dared to say, “Fool who needs a crutch to pace!” Looking up from where they lay. Looking at his downcast eyes, Plain disgust upon each face. And dragons filled the misty skies O’er the isle of the crippled race.