Friday Poem
© 23 May 2014 Luther Tychonievich
Licensed under Creative Commons: CC BY-NC-ND 3.0
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Friday Poem

A knight stops for dinner.


Untitled Poem

Metal plates scraped as the old knight sat down,
And everyone heard it, for all of the town
Had gathered to hear what this warrior great
Would tell them once he did his appetite sate.
He ate then most calmly, roast mutton and bread;
He chewed, and they watched, for he moved his whole head
Since his jaw was held fixed by the metal neck guard
That he had not removed (was removing it hard?
Many townsfolk had wondered, but none dared to ask).
He didn’t drink much, just a pull from a flask
That he brought with himself, to the pub-man’s chagrin
For he’d hoped that his ales might elicit a grin
From this vision in armor of old, lordly might.
Instead, he just ate until evening’s last light.
And then the knight spoke, as the town held its breath,
Expecting grand stories of glory and death:
“Good grub,” he said simply, and laid down some coin.
Then he pushed himself up, metal scraping ’cross loin,
And fastened his helmet again on his head.
He told not a story, he asked not for a bed,
But simply walked back to the road, turning right,
And trudged off till clanking was lost in the night.

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