So down the road I went,
bent over my walking stick,
my whacking stick, for
striking the kneecaps of
impertinent little imps
who dare to drink my
saucers of milk, which
I put out for the elves,
as everyone should know.
When elves get angry,
you don’t want to see
their whacking sticks —
tiny, yes, but heavy
as apples, capable
of a crippling blow.
Elves have no scruples.
Nor do I. But I do have
a door that’s painted
periwinkle, a long,
straight road, two feet
and my back, bent
to see the sparkle
in the stones.