This is the hero; he is black or white,
Jewish or not-chosen, as you will.
He is villain too; porch-pillared from moonlight
And fondling with stub thumb the window sill.
Night wind laps back his hair; why, you all know him.
Eye a little pale, a yes-sir, no-sir mouth.
Disliked his heavy-hand pa, just to show him
He ran away from highschool once down south.
He brings the laundry, brown purse a foot wide;
He rattles garbage cans, taxies you home.
Once when in rain you let him step inside
He looked beyond you to the living room.
Eyes narrowed, he hates come and do and carry.
Prince am I none, he feels, yet princely born.
Some stories read when he was ten and scary
Hard upon Shaftoe and the crumpled horn
Expressed him maybe; he didn’t know; he forgot them
Glowering and drew secret maps in class.
Squirrels chuckled at him and by god he shot them.
His dreams have brought him here and cut this glass,
Or not his dreams. The imprisoned lady rather,
Her snow-white forearms bound, gazed and he came.
Gracious and golden-haired, unlike his mother.
Her hands were like his mother’s just the same
Not that he knew. He only knew the window
Tilted and stuck. Impatient, his blood cursed.
But his two secret words cónjured the window.
He thought a moment, swung his left leg first.
Once in, he heard them breathing. Slow, excited,
Clasping her image he made for their den.
A nervous click, the door rushed at him lighted,
All lamps and glass and draperies, the woman
Bolt upright, unbelieving. He came closer.
The ogre snored beside her, red mouth deep;
Disguised (as always) like Duffy the grocer,
He lay enchanted in a beery sleep.
And threshed and gurgled as the good scout-knife
Cut in, cut deeper and the skin spread wide.
“She is half free,” he thought, “this saves my darling.”
And now for that witch-woman by his side.
But slow; but soft-this is liturgy. Once more
He saw the lady beckon, one arm free.
He flung back curtains, found the secret door;
Crooned as he swung it with the golden key.
The deacon two streets over under his steeple
Is dreaming this; his grating molars groan;
It runs with many faces through the people;
Dali will paint it with live telephones.
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