Selling my possessions for a lentil--
why should I not go on riding, riding?
Why should I submit to life in hiding,
in my father's tent, content and gentle?
All that I inherit is a rental
I can never buy, and I am biding
time until my chance goes gliding, gliding
past my fingers, real and fundamental.
I will take it down, and we will wrestle;
I will be the master of the center,
she who owns, the muscle-maddened maven,
sleeping, pausing to bear down the pestle.
Any tent I fancy I will enter,
eating any meal in any haven.
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