Don Quichotte

I meet him on the Playa de Las Canteras.

He builds sandcastles, writes words in

the wet sand. Grasp, gratitude, grand cru.

At first I do not recognize him. How often

have I seen him without an armour? He

suddenly seems much smaller, tiny even.

His white skin shimmers in the sun like

lukewarm yogurt ice. It does not bother

him. He jokes against beautiful women, he

dives into the waves, he buys fried fish.

I can't  imagine this. Is it him? Really? But

where is his horse? His shield? His lance?

Where his belligerence? His scaly dreams

to fight? Against windmills ? Against

injustice, stupidity, postmen in shorts? He

notices me. He waves at me. And screams

with the seagulls. "Why did you not bring

your swimsuits with you, Sancho Panza?"