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.