A buddy of mine wrote this for a college lit magazine in Toronto. I think it's awesome:
It is possible that I have never been successful,
but I was powerful, once.
A child and tyrant-king
My glory days were in the backyard mud
overturning stones and entering the murmured mythologies
of stunned amphibians, chased in increments of
A predator child, in incremental pursuit
of frogs pretending not to exist
until I exhale, expose myself,
and all that is left is to move move move!
Or, picking woodlice out from under logs
rolling their armored bodies around in pudgy palms,
amazed at my own endless strength,
I close my fists,
insides of insects oozing out from incautious fingers.
Beneficent, I’d drop scraps from my lunch
too large to contemplate into the whirlpooling
galaxies of ants that spun out from cracks in the concrete.
A fickle God,
waxing wroth when rebellious wasps swarmed,
I’d let loose roaring aerosol flames
bug-spray and a lighter my Mjolnir.
Once, I found a scorpion with my cousins,
we prodded its reaching claws with sticks,
aware of our mortality, until
terrified, we called for our fathers
who crushed it with a rock.
I am older now.
I move in ways both inconceivable and dull
to children and insects
and taller now, I tower less,
but I still remember being powerful, once.