Was it only a puddle
A puddle in the wheel-rut,
In the gutter by the wayside
That fired back my lantern-light like a retort
And my own quavering face
Like an accusation, “There goes a boy”
“A useless, silly creature”
Were they only wheel-ruts
Mimicking the furrowed shoulders of a bare-backed farmer
Who stoops to clear the path of his plow
Upon the spine of such a giant do I tread
With bloodied feet
J. ALEKSANDR WOOTTON 