sugar ray

you don't agree

with the wind i decide.

i find you in the closet

in the spring

when the devil storms

blow through

leaving dust a quarter inch

thick on the sills and tumble-

weeds pinned under our cars.

i think i caught you crying to

match the howling yowping. i wasn't

scared so much

as unnerved by your fears. i felt that

same sense of creepiness

when you introduced me to

bathing in the dark

and insisted you tag along.

i discover only now (or think i do)

your ploy for boys.

when i write your

history/epitaph i'll call you "moped"

as you had no penchant for manlier machines

and i see you riding side-saddle through

those gates to houses

inside those mansions - rejoicing

(only) at the lack of wind

but small piles of (angelic) dust.

(c) jim hill (08-01-10)