Centaur

Great poems 
have I written none

Great poet
am I not

Yet poet I am
do hum

as humble 
shoemaker

repairing
an old shoe

cherishes 
hammer and glue

making old heel
almost new

as he imagines 
himself

half horse
half man

centaur
ready to prance

he smiles
enjoying

what the 
woman 

whose shoe
he has in hand

would feel 
when she found

he has four 
hooves, no hands

is all 
underslung

he polishes 
the shoe

he sees himself
grinning in

with a hint
of a glint

I let go 
of centaur

not much
but a manner

of seeking
speaking of me