Three Poems

My Perfect Enemy

The enemies I've made in my short life
Are all called Ugo, and we meet at dawn
To strut and posture, heckle, spit and pout.
The hour's a good one for the play of swords.

The first time that I met him, he rose up
One melting dawn beside the garden path.
A foppish man, full-stomached, with a sword,
I soon despatched him. How his servant laughed!

I asked that turncoat: what was his design
To be about so early in the day?
Was he a thief? Or was it something worse?
He is your perfect enemy, he said.

That left me speechless, so I let him go.
But since that dawn, he will not be denied.
We strut and posture, heckle, spit and shout.
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