A Deadly Endeavor

One knee down, one knee up, I kneel,
Running three fingers through the dirt.
What has been here is no longer here.
Trickery in the soil.  Someone has been at work.

A razor- sharp metallic point tickles my earlobe.  Trickery indeed.
I move naught but lips and tongue.

"Verily, O Worthy Opponent of mine,"
I spout poetical blather
Knowing the affinity my adversary has for it,
"O Skilled Bearer of Men's Hearts,
Whence comes this need to threaten the soul of one poet,
Poor and unknown?"
"Shall not justice be meted out?"
Comes the rejoiner.
"Shall not one well-versed in
The allure of pleasurable pain
Be given the chance to practice his art?"
Ah-ha.  She has yet possession
Of her wit.  Be this my greatest chance at love,
I am taking it.
"I find no aversion in me to do that for which I am born,"
I reply.  "By all means, grant me this chance."
The razor-point is removed.
I turn.
Before me stands a lady clad all in forest green.
Appropriate.  Tis a forest we are in.
In her hand, a long dagger.
"Kneel," the lady commands. "I may spare your life."
"How reassuring you are," I say, kneeling carefully. "My chances, as ever,
Are so slim as to be nonexistent.  Yet I would beg a boon
Of thee, lady."
"What be that?"
"Wouldst thou be available in one fortnight from yesterday?
I have a desire for meat of the forest.  Methinks to be
Thy fellow hunter-at-arms is an advantage."
"A negotiator has come," the woman smiles wryly.
"A fortnight from yesterday you say.  Hunting animal before man
Is perhaps a wise Course.  I will not be denied this my primary sport
In the end."
"I doubt it not."
"Know then, that I shall expect you here, as you have specified,
In thirteen days hence.  Rise now, poet, and be gone."
I arise with alacrity, and take my leave in silence.
Thirteen days.
Tis a date.

Adam Scott Campbell