Shades of Eben Flood

You know what they say,
about fish in hand
worth a whole lot more
than learning to play

with others in ways
that do not distinguish
us from the herd.
If I were Eben Flood,

or he me and somehow here,
he/we would dodder past
this blasted scape,
like none near Tilbury Town.

And if ol’ Eben
were to raise our jug,
standing in the shrouded lane,
“Like Roland’s ghost

winding a silent horn,”
he would be tested
in the search for worthy comrades
lest he were worthier than I.

But, I cried, like Eben did,
of whom are you speaking, and why?
I’ll tell you, I said, I’m the one
creeping,

hiding from juggernauts
crouching in shadows,
longing for hilltops,

wishing for friends
to steal with me
the jug from the juggernaut
and share it around
until it is empty
and we’re on high ground.