Author Information
Fikske
Folder:
Dead Poets
"Fikske"
He steps onto a waiting street
a quick figure, pockets filled
with all sorts of tools,
each one borrowed
from some neighbours' sheds
and returned with stories attached.
Rikske calls him a spark
behind every shared mischief,
though Fikske insists he only follows
the flow of the days offerings
—a loose plank, a rumour,
a shortcut through the alley.
He walks lightly,
with a particular lack of caution
because he trusts the ground
to meet his footfalls.
Other dogs know him; bakers nod;
old men at stoops lift their hand in greeting.
When trouble arrives (and it always does)
he is already halfway to a solution,
nary a grand design
and a hint of strange luck in noticing
what others pass by.
Some say he is small.
He says the world is large enough
to make that unessential.
As evening shadows swallow rooftops
he is stil out there,
following each sliver of possibility
a glimmer that keeps him moving forward.
.
