Archive 08/31/09 - (2)

   

Last Night of August

                                                                  

On this last twilight of August 2009,

The bracing breezes of incipient fall insinuate my skin.

My flesh beads up, with goose pimples.

 

What I too painfully, too palpably realize,

Sitting outside, on this restaurant's quiet patio,

Is that another summer, too fast, has passed me by,

 

Like Don Quixote sallying forth again,

From his broom closet lleno de libros de caballería,

To tilt against yet another giant in the guise of a windmill,

 

Racing past me, on his ragged rackabones nag, Rocinante,

At the frantically antic clip of an inebriated pantaloon,

Heading toward horizon's edge, falling into the setting sun.

 

Why, tonight, I incline to such a distracting digression,

I have no conception. All I know is this:

Summer's taken leave, and like the Don's, my soul is doleful.

 

Would that I could, with his delusional imagination,

Will the season otherwise, reverse its winterward path.

But such is not within my powers' prowess, I being Sancho.

 

And so it is, must be, on this last, brisk twilight of August,

That Alonso Quijano and I

Lick our wounds, sleep in a gutter, and freeze our asses off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

08/31/09 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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