Tipping Windmills, My Ass

By Hunter Keyser

“Have you read Don Quixote?”

My old man probes,

“Because you tip windmills.”

No, I haven’t,

And now I surely won’t,

But metaphor noted,

Roll my eyes,

Recalcitrance surges in me,

Realizes it has no chance,

Dives down my throat,

Adam’s Apple Splashes.

This Windmill, I won’t tip.


My old man, noble white-collar,

Forsee’er (avoider) of losses,

Even where they’re worth it,

Laughs the cynical laugh

Of the hopeless complacent

Who mask defeat in the guise of wisdom



Though I swallow it,


“Anytime there’s been a fight,

you’ve laid down and said ‘take me!’”

His theory: the less you writhe,

The less you notice the shackles.


He’s good at turning cheeks


Escapes death row

Wild fish tanked

But not filet’d

Unhappily married

But not alone

By accepting circumstance

He escapes the worst.


Foolish, I can hear him say

Fighting battles which cannot be won

And he echo with all the millions

Crippled old gooks

Never had fight,

Young or old,

And by the way,

Turned out wrong.


Don’t attribute it to youth

Cowardice is not wisdom

Revolt is not teen angst

Man worth hearing of

Has kept stance from pre-aged days of instinct

To weathered days of triumph


Listen to him? Not a word

Proof in pudding,

His way is unfruitful,

And if it were, it’d be along way in the wrong direction.


He is well-adjusted

To pathetic circumstances,

Eats shit,

Brushes teeth,

Calls breath fresh.

Apropos battles that breed belly fire,

For him: don’t think about it,

It goes away.