Charlie the Knight Maker

He walked with his head low,
transparent as the curtains
in the rail house.

The felt of his cap
a friend,
riding his head
like a king in a coronation.

Charlie made him a knight
as he sat in the shadows.
His torn robes,
piled by the marble threshold.

He dubbed this day
a day for knights
and two of them
were there, near the French drain in the floor.

The knights of what might have been.

The trot of their horses,
and shout of the steel,
red crosses of the crusaders,
thunder in the morning,
beneath bright blood in the sky.

Charlie’s eyes ached
as his focus faded.
The other knight removed his cap,
taking his rank,
before napping near the dreams.

The dry leaves
beside the knights,
cast minor shadows
in the drift of light,
left of this day.

The two knights,
who knew not what they were.
But the one who knighted all the others,
from there in the shadows,
Charlie the knight maker,
not a knight himself.

Hayward 2008