Untitled Document

Teaching Installation

Even after his illness
he would still insist that I drive him to the windmills.

Ah! La Mancha!

the same conversation
the same promise of a lesson
ending mid-sentence as I stopped the car.
For here he would struggle, alone, alone
drawing a crowd, before
staggering off,
his steps a roll-call
for the muscles of his legs.

I trailed behind, a laden ass
until he reached a point
where he would let it be assumed
that he could (if required) select an appropriate brush.

He ordered me, ordered me - revising his spot
gathering the critics with cartwheeling gestures

Yes...yes...
Sancho - that's perfect!

All I could see was the easel against the skyline
a beginning perhaps, an empty A. The start of something,
the indefinite article to which a wit had added a drumroll.

But he, as the master, declared it complete
and he bowed to his public, the waiting press

before beginning the long walk back to my car.

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