To he who escapes, instead of charging into battle,
this young quarter century barely understands,
forgives his absence, yet imagines:
reveling in words of fictional
riches and love is more sane than accepting
childhood’s biting belt, and hoary destitution.
No page-boy enters the fray.
Driven from home to his ivory stone refuge,
towering institutions nurture this love.
For his sake, I hope that alphabet parade
after his name made absences and books worthwhile.
The perfect squire, shield-bearer.
The pleasurable weight of the spine in his palm–
relaxed stretch of digits from head cap to tail.
Shield of paper and board,
cloth and thread,
wax and awl,
The knight awaits.