The Duel

And so it was
In the limpid hours of dawn
The sun's bright disk barely cracking the emblazoned horizon
Pouring forth like a great, spewing plinth
Upon the verdant lowlands
That I saw
There, rampant upon the soil
Swords strapped upon their heaving flanks
Grim resolution written in their eyes
The chosen heroes...or villains...of the hour
Step forth to triumph or miserable demise!

And in what cloistered bower
In what perfumed boudoir
Doth their maiden wait?
Her breath coursing in whispered snatches
Her birdlike heart pounding
Like the pendulum of a tiny Swiss clock
Fashioned by some wizened machinist of yore
Toiling over the instruments of his ancient trade
Like a god toiling over the creation of a sentient ape!

Nay! Think not of death and tragedy.
Think rather of the merry play of the Fates
Weaving their inscrutable tapestries
Upon our vagrant lives
With complacent, fathomless disdain
Tempered by a teaspoon of easy grace.

If 'twere not for the fact
That a lady abandoned is akin
To a fine car that lacks a differential
Better that both these heroes should fall
And thus in their falling
Provide fertile ground for a century
Of exaggerated tales of manly prowess...

But wait! The hour soon arrives.

And I must hasten down the following wind
To Rouen, marvelous Rouen
Where my lover awaits!
Angelique! I am coming!

I cannot stay and see blood spilled upon this field.
Let the devil take the hindmost
And may it be Winston.

- Malcolm Buggeroll (writing from Rouen, France)