poets poeting: an ode to don quixote

(when the bottle reaches your person,
say a few words for the gentleman statue
looming in the corner--)

don quixote,
posed with flag staff and might,
two mad men stole you
in the middle of the night
off a porch, some bastard
leaving you out there to weather.

don quixote,
your dulceanea, was she too
crafted, painted dress
finger picked and peeled,
peasant basket at her bare feet,
molded ripples
in her hair?

don quixote,
anachronistic as the armor
you bear,
we didn't ask for these old souls
from a witch's hex, our mothers' unpaid debts
to veiled strangers.
this poetry is a curse,
but our noise, our chorus
echoing through empty bottles
and alleys,
someone
under the moon
will catch this fever.