DEAR BARTLEY

By P D Proctor

 On my way to Hartley, I was accosted by a hiker named Bartley 

As he took his place by my side we continued ahead with our ride 

I was consumed with a history of greed and violence as I gazed straight ahead in silence 

From his time as a marine in Cyprus to his escape in the jungle from snipers 

From Puerto Rico to Cuba then France, Mr. Bartely had learned how to dance 

First flamenco, salsa then tango, call it luck maybe fate, name it chance, for the king a request came to dance` 

From his fleeting visit to the French palace followed a rendezvous with the royal lady Alice 

Nine months later a daughter arrived the royal lady was slightly contrived 

For the king, it was told had no seed, filled with joy nonetheless, twas agreed 

they continued as a family thereon 

A sanction was ordered, it is said to return to the King Bartley’s head 

Through Paris over borders and beyond days to nights passed to weeks then to months 

Exhausted, malnourished, close to death Bartley awoke in his future wife's bed 

Unaware of his uneventful past a ring on his finger married at last 

Though the kings’ men were nothing if committed, passing mountains, sailing oceans, trekking land, Informed and aware of their plan, Bartley forced to confess to his wife of his sordid eventful past life 

Unaccepting she begged him to leave, filled with sadness and sorrow he agreed 

As we finally arrived in Hartley, thank you good friend expressed Bartley 

As I turned to gesture goodbye he was gone in the blink of an eye 

Along the highway at this junction, it is said roams a hiker with a hood but no head 

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