A mesa in a town named for a knight
who slew a dragon (not the one you think)
was visited upon one morning’s light
by someone who would make the fourth wall wink.
St. George was a small town named for no knight,
but for one who, indeed, a dragon, slew—
my hometown, who, for rearing me, would write
itself into the story its name knew.
For there’s a mesa, standing like a knight,
on St. George city’s north-northeastern side,
that I gave to a dragon’s dreaded might,
where he might rear his hoard, and so reside.
You’ll know it when you see it—’tis a sight!
But do not tell the aforementioned knight!
~~~
A fake account of something very true
has made me trust what I have never seen.
Despite the years I had a wretched view
of what should be, I have, to green fields, been.
And though I am not living there, I know
that what I saw exists. Or that it should—
and that is something worth the laying low
that life deals out to those who would love good.
For good is true enough to keep one glance—
one sight of it is worth a life of woe.
I will take it. I will take every chance
to see it more, and, life within it, know.
I had to render out a fairy tale,
but trust the fake more than real life’s detail.