I will not beat you down br>
I will not run you through br>
For your drumbeat of indignities br>
Sustains me with commonplace comforts
I hedge my bets br>
And run for King, br>
The dying art of hubris, br>
Jonesing for a lesser role, br>
Petitioning surplus humiliations. br>
Praise wounds from which all stressing weeps
Crown me with your donkey’s yoke br>
And I will burnish it like chestnuts br>
Unattended for three seasons br>
Tumbling in pocket flannel br>
Never knowing light or worth br>
Until one day br>
Spill with sundry coins br>
Across the clattering counter br>
Radiant in its lustre
Like lambs raised by wolves br>
Your pity knows no greater love br>
That I should be grateful.
I will not beat you down br>
I will not run you through br>
Though you have earned br>
A hero’s death, unbidden, unprepared
For this grand interruption br>
I wonder how you will take it br>
That it will take you br>
And I a breath more than yours
What good will I make of that intake br>
To honour your catalog br>
Of accidental kindness br>
That you should be br>
Commended to whomever br>
In the bleak forecourt:
There stands my friend br>
For whom I never had to take a bullet.