As I was walking one cool spring day I found a man hopping on one foot singing to himself.
He was wearing my favorite coat.
He had stolen my favorite sword.
I chased after him hurling insults like stones from slings
hoping one would brain the demented old man and floor him
I wanted my stuff back
I wanted to know how he got in.
But he was too spry, each new jig, each new step was a confoundingly brilliant evasion.
I ran after him over the hills
through the streets
over gravel
under bridges
by gullies
and swamps
but the old man never faltered
even on one foot at a time
even while keeping a rhythm
and inventing new verses.
He told me of a lifetime of bacon sandwiches
old cats
and flea bitten men
of talking mice
of mocking birds
and the ideal method of cracking walnuts in your hand.
I finally asked him nicely
weary and out of breath
where he had this energy
why he chose to torment me
why he refuses to be still
and he said with a grin:
You're not chasing me dear boy
you're but a shadow stuck to my feet.
A figment of MY imagination
and it is your destiny to always question-
How did I ever let you become me?
