We’ve called for reinforcements, cavalry
and stuntmen, men with quivers, men whose names
in ancient languages mean valiant
and thick of neck. Mermen and chiseled men
like the mini men on top of trophies. Men
trampled by boars to save their firstborn sons
and sonless daughters. Hotheads, tarred and feathered;
yes men, tall and monocled, bespoke,
unspoken for, and down to lead a hand.
We’re storming the perimeters and stores
of doubt, with catalogs of tragic flaws
and maps and shiny shoes, a man band marching
to the beat of Bite Me, passing madly through
the universe I used to share with you.