Don Quixote Came to Hamilton

By James Steeves

Don Quixote came to Hamilton;

I saw him at the corner of Wellington and Main;

He was sitting on a weathered walker, leaning against a pole,

Directing traffic:

Red light and his arm shot out to stop the cars,

Green light and he directed the cars forward,

His arm spinning in a circle like the blade of a windmill.

I know it was Don Quixote;

I learned in school about a knight who sought a golden time,

And chased after windmills, mistaking them for giants,

Defending the town from anachronistic threats.

For several days I saw him there,

Day and night, rain or shine, directing traffic:

Red light,

Green light,

He looked like Don Quixote: graying hair, wrinkled skin,

Sitting atop his horse with broken wheels and a torn leather seat,

Protecting the city.

And then he was gone;

I went down to see him today;

The cars zoomed by as if nothing ever happens at the corner of Wellington and Main;

I’ve looked everywhere around the block,

Down alleys filled with broken toys;

No, Don Quixote is gone.

But I see other knights everywhere pursuing their windmills:

A man who assumes his post at Main and Wentworth,

Flipping a bottle–flip, flip, flip–the bottle long empty,

As cars zoom by, oblivious to the trick;

Or an old man strumming a guitar at Main and James,

Enthralled in his concert for one as others pass by;

It reminds me of Beethoven’s deafness when he conducted at his last concert,

As the orchestra sat in silence, the piece long over.

No, I guess I see Don Quixote everywhere,

And things once gold and true turn gray and false,

And windmills–who says they are gone, a thing of the past?

No, windmills are everywhere;

A windmill awaits its Don Quixote wherever there is

traffic to direct,

Or a bottle to flip,

Or a guitar to strum;

So Don Quixote is definitely still in Hamilton;

You just have to watch out for him.

When you see him, please remember to smile and nod,

Since one day, when you are older, it could be you.