Longtime Benito, the fever dream catcher,
kept in his kitchen a cauldron of brine.
Thus fish were entertained periodically
and from their bones he built himself a shrine.
Forced to the sidelines by random rag pickers,
he felt it his right to get more playing time.
His vision was keen but his sense of smell thwarted.
He’d play for a quarter but not for a dime.
His house was of brick and his bed was of feathers,
donated by birds who were passing in flight.
He wrapped his possessions in camouflage tethers
and felt that the war in his head was all right.
But one day Benito crossed over the river.
He did not come back for a moonful of days.
His door was unlocked and he saw with a shiver
his dear lair had been taken over by strays.
These wild dogs and thin cats were immune to reason.
They would not be swayed by his logic or threats.
And so he deemed this time his space sharing season,
accepting this outright invasion of pets.
The last anyone saw of Longtime Benito,
he carried on his back a pack of his goods.
He sat at the bar nursing one last mojito,
then silently walked off and into the woods.