Quixote Retires

Quixote Retires

by Kelp

Tired of the masquerade,
Quixote
Throws off his strange
And enigmatic cloak of madness,

Goes back home
To his musty room and lumpy bed.
The dusty floors
Are in dire need of a broom.

Weary of the quaint and curious
Diversion
That so-long occupied his imagination,
He returns alone,
Beaten back
To where he started from.

Back to his beloved books,
A cup of solacing tea at hand,
Into which he’s measured
Several heaping teaspoons
Of syrupy sweet boredom,
More than enough
To keep him still,
A serious man, no longer a buffoon.

Farewell to Sancho,
His loyal squire,
Who lived himself into
Quixote’s madness,
Protected him and consoled him,
Sometimes despised
His second fiddle status,
His mind and body in violent commotion,
But never dared to break the spell
That kept the two attuned.

And that peasant woman
Of middling beauty,
The thought of Dulcinea
Only dulls him now.
Chivalry be damned.

Windmills are just
Windmills, nothing more
And nothing less.
How silly it now seems.

The time has come
To put aside the seeking,
The striving, all this playing
at childishness,
To yield to the inevitable,
To face old age
With courage and with forbearance,
Make an end to notions and to dreams.