A charming Pisces. He always wore the same thing,
blue, all blue, hospital gown, prison blue.
He loved antiques, lamps, stained-glass windows, and Spanish relics.
Statues, mini-buddhas. A writing desk. My grandpa, the poet. The arsonist.
Collector. Heartbreaker.
A good runner, bags packed before dawn. Landlords hated him. The bad tenant.
But he was more than his possessions, more than the fire he started. More than la vela.
I like to remember him standing, tall and strong and wheelchair-free. Free from restraint,
free from concrete white walls, microwaved cheeseburgers, and visitation days.
Free to climb the barbed wire fence to teach his granddaughter how to write Spanish poetry.