In a corner of the attic, my old bow,
dusty and unstrung.
 

Last time I used it I’d never heard
of Telemachus or his lost father.
And I was lousy at whittling,
animal husbandry, knots,
and every other skill of scouting.
But I was an archer to be reckoned with.

Watching the bright feathers
rise and head for home
in the distant bale of gold
actually pierced my soul.
Proving that I had one.

Mr. Livermore, the scoutmaster,
really thought it was something.
But he already had a kid.

That boy sure can handle a bow,
he once said, and I just opened up
a secret compartment that came with me
as standard equipment,
took that comment of his
and tucked it away.