Spun

The very people are not very nice.
The very people feel disdain, disgust
even, for the persons who by choice
and skill manage to pull hand over fist

from the ditch of chance. Recall the tiny
red man who saved the Miller's daughter, spinning
thatch to gold. Gold! The engine of alchemy
was rage. The small man's history of winning

was long but irrelevant. Remember what
he wanted? Someone's child. (Normalcy.)
He delivered the strange: exactly that
which was required for her security.

He notched quotidian stuff to something
tough, wrought, and so much desired by the King.

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Copyright © 2011 Anna Maria Hong All rights reserved
from Green Mountains Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission