The Joust

A teenager tries once again to master his sport. Who will win the Battle of the Board?

The Joust

The sun rises, the herald
of our dual.
He strides like a knight
to the crusade.
He thinks he is Lancelot,
ready for a ride at the lists.
He is a fool.

Unadorned he mounts,
his head unprotected,
naked of armor.
He will regret it.

We are enemies he and I.
He thinks I am a gift he can tame.
But I will not be broken.
I will break him.
Again.

With a great burst he charges the field.
He holds his head high,
waving to the masses
as we roar by.
He thinks he is their paladin
on his steed, reveling in his glory.

Yet, at the moment of triumph,
at the height of the crowd's cheering,
I buck him off.

He falls awkwardly
to the battlefield.
His limbs askew and
his head in the mud.
I show him
for the petulant child he is.

Once again,
I roll off into the distance.
Silent and forgotten

I am the victor.