Knights Tend To Topple, Then Fall

He starts well, straight-backed,
lance held in balance,
a weighty presence,
tall, handsome warrior.

In the stands, a woman
watches in disbelief,
at man’s vanity,
witnesses the tumble.

One blow glances off,
wooden batons clash
like arrows in flight
attracted to death.

The next, on target,
is a deadpan thud,
a pantomime act,
fatal direct hit.

Her Knight is unseated,
so futile an action
she believes he knew
it was always a scene,

a picture of greed.
He wanted infamy,
not a loose-limbed war,
this gaudy, slant end.