One-room apartment on Avenida Mesones
at the top of a narrow flight of stairs;
single bed, table and two chairs, small kitchen with
pan for making spaghetti, and in the refrigerator–
half a bottle of red wine, package of Hershey kisses.
Not so far from the tracks where
Cassaday fell, his heart played out,
no one much remembers now.
Across the little pueblo, language schools,
students spilling out to
clubs, bars, art galleries.
Inside, a copy of Don Quixote,
resting all day on the table,
in the quiet, away from the noise, the
bustle of life on old cobblestone streets,
wine and chocolate waiting, the presence of
Cervantes, cool, modern Cervantes,
“What giants?” incredulous Sancho cries.
Smooth Cervantes, comic, good-hearted,
Book II a response to critics, doubters,
literary pleasure near non-pareil,
all casually perused and enjoyed
above the busy cobblestone streets
of rare, distant San Miguel de Allende.