BUT THIS WAS BROADWAY

and I, being sixteen
and words not having found me yet,
I shivered

that the knight must not be allowed to learn
how he was playing a fool.
But his brittle gauntlet just kept reaching—

not a simple midsummer dreaming
dainties for a king but
buckling with the words,

and buckling with the sword for
thrusting all asides,
Sancho, Lady Dulcinea,

prison guards who parlayed his globe
to ground zero gravel—
the knight mainlining it

so we catch the baritone shuffling
in too big boots,
too slick helmet, and rusty coat

up from the cellar
where he's the player
and no one believes in singing.

s h a r o n   d o y l e
f o r t   c o l l i n s,   c o l o r a d o

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