(For the young man on the corner of 6th and 9th)
Is this the man who fought for his kingdom?
The knight who rode his fierce stallion into battles
Screaming Gaelic curses and swinging his sword like
A gleaming tooth from the dragon itself?
Is this that warrior, who celebrated his triumphs
With his companions in the halls of the greatest
Castles? The man who wanted for nothing
And basked in the Glory of his king’s admiration.
It was he (Remember?) who found the cup. It was
He who drank its glory, spilling rivulets of Ambrosia
Down his front as he toasted the brave men who
Alongside him had buried their weapons in the sides
Of their enemies, making widows of yet-born girls.
The kingdom cheered him when he rode home from battle,
Then wrote songs about his victories to pass the cold,
Dark evenings in remembrance of something that was
Its own mythology—that prize they called Honor.
Is this the same man? This shrunken figure,
Who now sits on the damp sidewalk, back up
Against the piss-stained building? His cup, paper and torn,
Filled not with honey and wine, only a few small coins.
Is this his steed, a shivering brown beagle,
Paws crusted, fur dingy, curled into its own
Miserable hunger in its master’s filthy lap?
Who is this figure, once a man, who now
Begs for crumbs and a drop of warm coffee? Who weeps
For the imminent death of his only friend — his
Only warmth on these streets that get colder by the week.
The abrupt crowds brush past, ignoring, turned inward and
Forgetful of the man who fought for his kingdom,
Who dreamed only of glory and the love of his brothers.
What happens to our legends when we find new stories to sing?
Jessica Wilson is an editor who teaches English as a Second Language at Rutgers-Newark, where she is also a graduate student in literature.
