The Line

hunkered down, hating movement more than much else,
steady like nothing else I knew.
to move or be moved, it is not a question for you.
You don’t and won’t and couldn’t budge, anchor wedged perfectly into the sandy bottom of your childhood,
which directs your every move.
I remember once when you slammed me to the ground it took me by surprise, not the action, but who had done it.
You had struck me
as a more gentle fellow than that.