Remembering Che

 

Late in the day you’re likely to find him

stretched between two calloused palms, drink in hand,

looking east, deaf to the sun. That old world,

the aging whines, rarely worth recollecting,

as far from his thoughts as tomorrow’s breakfast,

a trivial matter resolved whenever

the tools finally run out of pesos.

Should you mention Marx, he’ll laugh, ask after

Harpo, ‘the wisest of the lot …’

That other one, he’s got nothing to add

that hasn’t already been said. A fool.

Un chupasangre! What more do you want?

Piss-poor lover. Derelict father …

Bourgeois through and through. Conventional.

That’s what the mythmakers won’t tell you …

the real man inside, the one he loved to death.  

Ken e Bujold