A traveler in a large tan trench coat
whipped his black-grey beard over his shoulder
and foraged through the dark pine forest.
Circling a tree-covered knoll
he heard a harsh, unnatural sound,
a knocking sound. Then suddenly
his blue eyes fell on a cabin, perfect
in its surrounding firs.
It had no doors, no windows, and no chimney.
The traveler went round for a better look,
and on the far side was a burly man,
dressed in corduroy overalls, and bare chest:
he was red-faced, colliding his forehead
against the rough Southerly planks,
leaving small white marks behind.
His elbows, knuckles, and knees, and forehead
all bore bruises, yet he repeatedly smashed them
against the unyielding wall.
Sensing the stranger, the man whipped about,
his long sweaty hair sticking to his face.
A deep bellow preceded bleary dark eyes.
"Who comes near my cabin? I found it
FIRST!! Me, me, me!"
"I'm sorry, I don't want a cabin," the traveler replied,
"What's your name?"
"Greg. And yorn?"
"Samuel. I'm just a wanderer. Why are you
hitting this hard wall?"
"Why? WHY? Because it's not harder than me.
I lost my group to the cold last year,
and my tools. The clues led me here,
from this old map I bought years ago."
"How long have you been here?"
"Around ten days. I'll whither a hole
and peek in first. I'll do it yet."
"Could you use some help?"
"NO, I started with me and I'll end with me,
god damn it! Whatever's inside is mine."
"What about a do..."
"...a DOOR? I've looked, there's no way in
save the skin of my bones! I will
get in.
I will
get in.
Now leave."
The traveler shrugged, and turned woodward.
The knocking continued.
***
It was a month past,
and the snows had fallen heavily,
when the traveler donned his backpack
and made the trudge to the cabin
to check on Greg and his progress.
It was cold about, but the temperature
went even further down on the far side
of the knoll near the cabin.
At the base of the structure
was a curled form, black with frostbite.
The snow built a canyon the width
of the cabin's immaculate eaves--one wall
of wood, another of white.
The traveler furrowed his heavy grey brows
like lover moths dying together,
for the fool who had died trying
to break into a prison.
whipped his black-grey beard over his shoulder
and foraged through the dark pine forest.
Circling a tree-covered knoll
he heard a harsh, unnatural sound,
a knocking sound. Then suddenly
his blue eyes fell on a cabin, perfect
in its surrounding firs.
It had no doors, no windows, and no chimney.
The traveler went round for a better look,
and on the far side was a burly man,
dressed in corduroy overalls, and bare chest:
he was red-faced, colliding his forehead
against the rough Southerly planks,
leaving small white marks behind.
His elbows, knuckles, and knees, and forehead
all bore bruises, yet he repeatedly smashed them
against the unyielding wall.
Sensing the stranger, the man whipped about,
his long sweaty hair sticking to his face.
A deep bellow preceded bleary dark eyes.
"Who comes near my cabin? I found it
FIRST!! Me, me, me!"
"I'm sorry, I don't want a cabin," the traveler replied,
"What's your name?"
"Greg. And yorn?"
"Samuel. I'm just a wanderer. Why are you
hitting this hard wall?"
"Why? WHY? Because it's not harder than me.
I lost my group to the cold last year,
and my tools. The clues led me here,
from this old map I bought years ago."
"How long have you been here?"
"Around ten days. I'll whither a hole
and peek in first. I'll do it yet."
"Could you use some help?"
"NO, I started with me and I'll end with me,
god damn it! Whatever's inside is mine."
"What about a do..."
"...a DOOR? I've looked, there's no way in
save the skin of my bones! I will
get in.
I will
get in.
Now leave."
The traveler shrugged, and turned woodward.
The knocking continued.
***
It was a month past,
and the snows had fallen heavily,
when the traveler donned his backpack
and made the trudge to the cabin
to check on Greg and his progress.
It was cold about, but the temperature
went even further down on the far side
of the knoll near the cabin.
At the base of the structure
was a curled form, black with frostbite.
The snow built a canyon the width
of the cabin's immaculate eaves--one wall
of wood, another of white.
The traveler furrowed his heavy grey brows
like lover moths dying together,
for the fool who had died trying
to break into a prison.
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