Caned

A stick, pared clean—no, a silver-topped

bamboo-with-dagger, class doubling as club,

the advantage of gravity lifted high

overcoming the disadvantage of poking ahead.

He demurs. Weakness either way.

A man should crush opponents with a word.

Naive, I muse, at your age. A cane

replaces the sole’s sensors, bolsters them.

Balance is a matter for the unbalanced,

he says, all nuance, accusing me, Lear-lover,

of too much. The earth is now close, I tell him.

A sharp look. I’ll walk, he says, without.