He has a tomahawk wedged
in his walking stick.
Look at the spirits who tell him
It is nothing
He walks with a limp but tells everyone
Of how fast he has
run
The spirits will tell him he can run faster
Even now.
But I splinted his broken leg
With gauze and my own
bones
For I have always loved
Him
He has forgotten a time
When he deserved it.
Tell him to take that tomahawk out
Of his stick and to
throw it
At the spirits which congratulate him
He will miss, of
course.
They will turn and he will see
Their faces
I will help him run
I promise
Just tell him a tomahawk is never made
For walking.
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