A Centaur in His Dragon World
by Richard Epstein
The sorcerers played in their own front yard,
Cardboard and crayon cutlery, no faith
Because no doubt. The little kings who lived
Regnant beneath the evergreens, concealed
By prickly leaves and bagworms, weren’t impressed.
The eldritch practices of kids on trikes
Gray in good time, and teens do not recall
White magic. They require faith They pray
To gods and spirits, wholly insincere.
Elder than all, and smaller than their sight,
The little kings bowed once and turned their hands
To caterpillars, lightning bugs, and soup
Brewed from a clover damp with morning dew,
Seasoned with berries poisonous to men,
And set the spiders watching, all those eyes.