Smoking coat, Pomeranian close by
Butter pat atop a velvet chair.
He sips brandy, taps a gifted fountain pen,
Annotates the great Cervantes tale.
His muscles shrunk, jeweler’s loupe on his eye,
Skin cracked, no wood for the ancient stove.
His furred Rocinante gnaws its behind,
Curled on a sweater master’s mother wove,
But last mended by the departed wife.
Shivers on this makeshift pillow, and sighs.
Sancho left the mail in the box outside
Then moved on, called back by lover and child.
The windmill grinds again tonight, that lonely artifact.
He reads and writes but never finds the words to call her back.
For Ricky Barrios