Christopher Knight walked into the woods
in the wilderness one day.
He never looked back and was not looked for.
Robinson, cast away against his will
upon his island, did not stop
his search for a sail upon that empty sea.
Crusoe’s beard grew long and ragged,
clothes shrank to makeshift shreds,
about a whipcord body,
that hunted, fished and farmed,
as Knight could not.
Crusoe sequestered the spoils
of wreckage in broad daylight,
built a beacon on a hill.
Knight stole out in the dead hours
to different camps, broke and entered
to acquire supplies, hid in his tent,
never lit a fire, meditated.
Why? Knight asked himself, but could not say.
Yet, after all those years, he seemed
glad to end his solitude.
Perhaps. He had not seen himself
as we saw him, a well fed man,
neatly dressed, his weak eyes
his shaven face and head
shining with wholesomeness,
his clown face mouth
compressed to stop a tremble.
So what book did Knight love best?
Robinson Crusoe – or so they say.