Dulcinea

I sallied with the don today,
a tilting wind, a satchel at my side, a page
blown about the pitch.

“Find your homebase,” the alarm clock says,
and then repeats.
“In. Out. In. Out. In…”

The monsters are due.

I place a finger on the ground and feel the earth
spin. A planet upended, a globetrotter points to the sky,
the world whirls on the digits.

This dream will be forgotten,
save that moment
where the don turns to me, smiling
through sun-dried crust of old age and
smacking salt pork between his gums.
He speaks into the world:
“Dulcinea.”