Don Rico mends a broken chair
As tables turn to face the rain
Behind the wall he made by hand
When hands were made for building.
Don Louis paints the saddles blue
To match the henhouse and his jeans
Tomorrow's eggs come home to roost
If no one's there to pick them.
Don Rimbaud cures another ham
And smiles into his handkerchief
His tales of wagging tongues collide
With gossip shorn from fables.
Don Felix tunes the radio
While harvesting the current crop
A shock of bulbous hair reflects
The light of a hangnail moon.