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.