for Charlie Smith
If the only way out is through, what should
I wear? This battered armor, dented as
a drunkard’s tankard, my rended mail hood
barely hanging on, won’t do now—faux pas’s
reward. My lance’s shards serve only sun,
turning splinters to jewels in grass. For
years you’ve tested my spirit’s glass jaw, done
fear in, your uppercuts of honest words
hurling me to admission’s floor. The door
you always speak of—its dark light never
revealing life beyond transom, what shores
of mystery, fright, passion, peace ever
await us—stands open across the room.
Naked, praying, I dance toward ransom’s womb.
Roger Armbrust
January 25, 2009
