One-of-a-kind
cannot be classified
as endangered
but we walk up the sharp
incline of Kralja Petra
knowing we will stop at the crossing
where concrete stumps allow
a catch of the breath
you chase with such valiant calm

I recognize your species:
Quijota Americana Poeticus
(each verse a puncturing lance)
And in the same moment
understand once again
I have arrived too late

Just another Peter in the crowd
watching an arduous crucifixion
your windmill lungs churning
too slowly to grasp
their share of elusive sky

Your bag over my shoulder
raincoat over Corina's arm
we trudge beside you along
this uphill Via Dolorosa
while Scully's eyes betray
the fearful, loving truth
behind his scowl

An intellectual Sancho
and faithful repository
of your legendary adventures:
such as spraying
not-so-polished bar-tops
with sarcastic rhyme until
the open palm of drunken applause
curls into fisty melee

Blacked-out like Churchill's wartime London
you don't remember being bombed
awaking the next morning in a jail cell
like so many poets you publish
(a hangover never enough torture,
alcoholic sprees insufficient revolt)

Now all that social anger simmers
the last inch in a boiling pot
above a burner that never
tolerated regulation

We arrive at the Belgrade library
where our small cast of Americans
(and one Romanian)
will offer their psalms
to an audience that still senses
the percussion of American industry
dropped by indifferent technicians

You align the black patch
(a pirate's device to decipher
the treasure map of over-sized print)
stare out at yet another in a long series
of foreign audiences, pause
waiting for the mills to catch
the wind of your words

You are not who they expected
but then as you sing your songs
of love and lust and the sultry
injustice of time
we all realize you
are not who you expected
either

Afterwards
all the streets lead downhill
to the Royal hotel
and at times it seems
as if you might take wing
on the Danube breeze

In the small hotel cafe
drinking a midnight cappuccino
you stub out the last cigarette
of the day and describe
the epitaph you want
chiseled into marble

Then rise and slowly
climb three tall steps
leading to the elevator
that will carry you up
to the tower of dreams
Where your Dulcinea
awaits another closing of eyes

"See you in the morning,"
you say as the doors open
and Sancho ushers you in

and we watch the lights
mark your rise, blinking
God's Morse code which
finally stops at the top

No regrets
No regrets
No regrets