The little man edges out of the wood
and knocks the dry clods off his hobnail boots
just as the sun becomes an orb of blood
and creeping shadows blanket the gnarled roots;
His road-worn coat has holes in the elbows;
his tattered trousers mud-caked as his shoes.
Burst vessels spiderweb his swollen nose;
his face, once jolly, darkens like a bruise.
The bottle in his fist helps him forget
the shame and pain he's left, the stories told
about him in his former village yet:
how he, of all his kind, first lost their gold.
He spies the thief sleeping in his back yard,
fingers the knife and smiles--this won't be hard.
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