The katun of cool came and went,
Artemio none the worst for wear,
square and squarer still,
long hippie hair or leisure suit,
Army pants, patch-work quilt jeans,
Artemio all the same.
Always casting an eye
on the human pre-condition,
almost as if he wasn’t human himself,
his pelt hung on him by evolution,
the kind of evolution
man will never understand,
but, Artemio thinks he’s caught a glimpse,
in the dense jungle, in the bare desert,
in the crowded cities, in abandoned towns.
Yes, the streets of town empty,
except for the asphalt,
and a horned-toad that scampers across it,
looks at Artemio in the eye
at high noon
like a desperate Gary Cooper.