Caped by seething summer sun, North Lookout’s
pavement sheens like armor of lone dark knight
somebody wrote about or should have put
in one of those chivalrous novels, plight
of damsels and lesser men all based on
his soulless actions, faceless countenance
featuring lacquered helmet, its ebon
dull gleam, matching shield rebuffing poor glance
of each challenger’s lance or sword. Winter
frost, singed by afternoon sun, turns fallen
white knight to glittering gray ghost, splintered
spear spewed round him like showered spring pollen—
this road never a road, but now a corpse
revealing our course showing no recourse.
Roger Armbrust
March 4, 2011
