People he told the truth
to didn’t trust him
brained by a frying pan
& “just woke up there”
Without a tale to tell to death
or nail to hang his hat on—
thus we honor Amerigo
Merry-go-round to the right
of the roadside shrine
to the saint of dead bugs
Later, sitting collected in study
one among many little clay animals
I’ve got a history and a notebook
Coffee on the table
the old whistling chess master
calls “¡a la derecha!” on his way out.