I’m no St. George but
I’m hunting my old dragon
just the same.

Known long as Rheuma
he’s wily-strong with blunt fangs of dull steel.

Rheuma sneaks unseen
from behind grocery carts
and dogwoods.

With malice he slinks
from beneath my bed to curl
in my joints.

Clad in Arava
bristle-armed with quiet anger
I push on.

Rheuma waits for me
crouched, radiating misery
his bite swift.

He lunges at me
sinks his teeth into my hip
and clamps down.

But today my sword
swings, slices Rheuma deep and
wyrm-blood flows.

Dragon and I
retreat to our lairs overwhelmed
pained and tired.

I’m no St. George and
my dragon will never die
but I’m brave.