"¡Buenas tardes, señor!
Your mount,
A noble steed,
Stands at the ready,"
I say to my master,
This legend,
The questionably sane,
Man of La Mancha.
"What's that you say, Panza?"
Master wheezes,
Tired,
Bleary-eyed,
Befuddled,
Closer to the crypt than the craddle.
"Your ride,"
I reply.
"But surely this is a mistake, Sancho,
For that is your donkey!
Where is my faithful Rocinante?
This is no noble steed."
"The perfect companion,"
I remind him,
"For this misguided quest."
"Misguided?"
Quixote sputters,
"¡No, no, no señor!
It is my honor,
My duty,
To vanquish these noisy giants!"
"Giants, my lord?"
I sigh sadly,
(For we have been down this path before.)
"I will remind you,"
I say,
Pointing toward the surrounding hills,
"Those are merely windmills."
Quixote squints,
For a moment he seems to see them,
Maybe,
As they are,
Just ordinary windmills.
But then he shakes his head
And he mounts the beast in a huff.
"Giants!"
He roars,
Stabbing the little donkey with his heels,
And the donkey prances away,
The old man teetering in the saddle,
Off on a fool's errand.
4-4-19
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