If I Were a Poet

A child emerges
from a deep dark well,
lands on his feet
and, already knowing
how to run,
he hurries
down the hill,
into town,
learns to speak
enough to
ask the way
to the market square
where, being told
he has a soul,
he sells it
for a bag of gold,
then sells the gold
and buys a house
that’s big enough
for all the things
he dreams about,
but in his dreams
he hears his name,
and after many nights of this,
he waits
until it’s dark
and making sure
no one else
is on the street,
he softly steps
outside the door
and runs
back up the hill,
back to the well,
where he kneels
in silence
because he never
learned to pray,
and he hears his voice
called again,
and,
suddenly,
he’s sure
there is
no need to
run.
He takes a breath,
and with no
looking back
he dives
headfirst
into the well.