He sits upon that colt more like a king
than like the teacher crowds so long to throng.
He teaches, talks, and answers every wrong
and slips away from all the traps they spring.
He speaks in riddles, uttering a thing
that grows no clearer though explained. And long
I wait, and follow through the cloying throng,
the shadow of a would be servant-king.
And yet the day grows slowly to a close
and ember blackness brings the break I seek.
I feel the rush, the expectation grows
as I prepare to strike the other cheek.
So stealthily my thoughts create the prose
that ends His poser’s poem with a kiss.