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The Dragon Slayer
She has no armor, only jeans and sweatshirt.
Her weapons are broom, mop, pots and pans.
A mini-station wagon is her trusty steed.
Each day she rises to do battle
on a field laden with sleeping bodies,
strewn dirty clothes and overpowering dust.
Before beginning the in-house fight,
she feeds the pets, rouses the children,
and kisses her husband farewell.
Packing the car with her kids and theirs,
she carpools them to school knowing
dragons may prey on the unwary walker.
Back at the aluminum-sided castle,
she wields the vacuum handed down
through generations, slaying dust bunnies.
Dishes spill from the maw of the dishwasher;
she puts them in cabinetted safety and
turns to the hungry clothes machine.
Stuffing its mouth with endless laundry,
she dreams of life on a higher plain.
Would being rich be such a terrible thing?
Horsepower grumbling, backfiring a time or two,
she rolls into the grocer's parking lot.
The clerk collecting carts greets her by name.
Every aisle seems to hold a neighbor
in the midst of pasta and pastry mountains.
She smiles at her good fortune.
Trips to the bank, post office and cleaners
bring her back to the schoolyard
where her charges seek a secure haven.
A dragon is talking to her daughter
and grabs her arm as she turns away.
The Slayer jumps into action.
With car keys between fingers
making a formidable weapon,
she charges toward child and dragon.
"Leave her now!" cries the Slayer,
"Or forfeit your life and freedom!"
The Dragon snarls but releases the girl.
"Be gone, evil beast, lest you pay
for insult given and fear instilled.
The Knights of the city will know you!"
Cowering, the Dragon flees the grounds
leaving a terrified, sobbing child and
a Slayer shaken by the encounter.
She drives to the Department of Knights
telling them of the Dragon's attack.
A picture, a capture, the Dragon is caged.
Once again, the Slayer, dressed
in the guise of a thirtyish housewife,
jealously guards home and hearth.
Learn more about this author, Michelle N. Broughton.
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