Racing around the room with unlikely grace,
he trains himself in breath-taking locomotion.
Once under the hot sun of the western front,
his foes are met with determination and resilience.
Cautiously and with great bipedal force, his motion
appears drunk but innately deliberate.
No spirit or smoke enters his small, malleable frame,
yet his balance is clumsy at first, and accidental.
With legs far apart, ready for a saloon-brawl or shoot-out,
his practice leads him to bruise and exhaustion.
Whether barefoot or covered in metal spurs,
he toddles and uses his previously unknown kinetic mass.
At high noon, he crawls into a sleepy, dusty corner,
puts up his canteen of water, and rests from his adventures.
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