There is a poem my father showed me in an English textbook when I was young. I believe it is called The Tax Collector, but I cannot find it anywhere, in print or online. So I cannot properly credit its author, and I fear I may have some of it wrong, but here it goes:
While riding through rural Ruritania, collecting air tax for the mogul, I was summoned to the roadside by a dragon.
It was her scales I was not prepared for. Red, they were. Like blood on a dime. Like oil on an apple, and anyway I stopped.
"Kiss me," she said.
They really were the most remarkable scales. Like thumbprints on a ledger. Like teardrops, in consomme, and when I had done as she had asked (kissed her, that is), and she was blonde again, and creamy thighed, I did not know how to tell her it was the dragon I had loved.
1 comment:
The poem is by Jack Winter.
Riding through
rural Ruritania
collecting air tax
for the Mogul
i was signalled
from the roadside
by a dragon.
it was her scales
i was not prepared for.
red they were
and glistening
like blood
on a dime
remarkable really
like thumb prints
on a ledger
and in any case
i stopped.
Kiss me
she said.
they really were
the most remarkable scales
like oil on an apple
like tears in consomme.
when i did
what she asked
kissed her that is
and she was blond
again and creamy thighed
idid not know
how to tell her
it was the dragon
that i loved.
Post a Comment