The Fool of Aljaferia Palace Encounters Death
Borra, you were just a fool.
It was a day job, chuffing
and guffing it up for the King.
You were a minion,
a merry prancer,
by all reports, a mensch.
Some days you dragged
your feet and yawned,
another day of duncehood
for dinner, for dollars.
Even the plays bored you,
until the mechanical cloud
chugged across the hall
and hovered above you,
Death draping down with
a rope in his hand and then,
at the beck of the Duke,
around your neck.
You couldn’t have noticed
Death’s pink familiarity,
the face behind the mask.
The way he chuckled as
he tightened the grip and you
started to rise.
Your piss poured out
like a pitcher: you
dowsed the crowds
and even the King
laughed louder and louder
as your noosed head rose
awaiting your body’s
drop. You wept, sure
you had met your end.
Poor Borra, the joke
was on you. You
weren’t dead. Never
truly hanged, just
punched in your head
by the actor who then
offered you some mead.
In your dreams – no! –
you’ll plead and plead
for life, for your wife.
Forget it all, the jabs
and jests, the stature
of the fool is gone.
For days wash and wash,
trying to get the piss off.
The stench remains.
Legendary jester,
they still tell your tale,
make it taller and taller
until you’re made to laugh
it off and tell it yourself.
At death, the cap and bell
adorn your grave,
reminder of the furious
damp fear of the body
when Death gripped
it by the neck and lifted
you from the earth,
only to let you down.