Sir George and the Green Knight

“The liquor's gone to my head, Sir George!” he said,
or so I heard, though Doppler effected his voice,
because he shook his head to and fro, to and fro,
as I approached astride my coasting bike.

Deadpan he said, “Can I call you Sir George?”
“Of course!” was my reply. The shine of sun,
the chill against my knee of pale ale flask,
the alley gave way to spring but first the colors:

Red skin that set apart his bride's dress whiskers,
Blue shorts, bright blue that only set apart
A white turned fulvous shirt that could have been
a tawny shirt that years of sun bleached down.

The slosh that jolted round the jug he held
Held neither clear nor auburn ruddy meld,
But lips of “Oh!” surprise that I did greet
Until the jade bamboo marked my retreat.

Our eyes had met, the alley bum's and mine.
No longer set or dim, encroaching time.
To bear or not to bear another's weight?
A question meant to lure with tempting bait.