the sound of hail on a tin roof,
wind spinning a rusted weather vane,
a flickering streetlight heavy with kudzu:
these, all once-beautiful things,
dizzy in the headlights,
fading in the rear-view mirror,
sinking into the leather seats.
There is the crisp companionship of the dollar bill,
the vacancy sign, and the pack of complimentary matches
in the bowl on the edge of the bar.
You’d love the piano if he’d let you.
Send a prayer up with the traffic exhaust
and play double Dutch with tequila
until the crosswalk sign is a filthy blur.
Civility proves a stumbling block
and you wish he’d put his money
where his mouth is going.
There’s a heat wave in the dead of summer,
rising up from the pavement like Horus.
There are no wide open spaces to run to anymore—
save for the gaps in your memories
and the whites of your eyes.