Friday, August 25, 2017

Bibliophile: Book lovers

Don Quixote was my first love
A crush of windmills at seven.
I named my first car Rozinante,
That faithfullest of steeds
Castaway as trash to everyone else,
A treasure of mine to own.

At twelve, the time of crossroads,
My tilting lover was jilted out of place
By the stranger Albert Camus.

And through the coming of age years,
The voice of Voltaire beside me
As I drove mocked me gently,
Knowing that it wasn't that
I wanted to kiss Vermeer so much
As to smell his hair.

And the great Carl Gustav
Wise and weird, sipping
The collective wine of which
We are all unaware with
Uncle Walt beside him,
Leering and drunk himself
On his on enthusiasm,
His electric body farting
Sparks of truth.
Nobody really speaks of him much though.

And through it all, I still
Flirt Wildely with Oscar, even though
He's better at it and though
We both know it will never amount
To much.
The wink is all.