hunkered down in front
of a radio, hearing war stats
and pie recipes,
there is nothing for it
but to grow a story from
the button box-
like great-grandma in her apron

there’s a streaming thunderstorm
bringing the funk to town
in wingtips and filigree

Wednesday
is macadam, rubber
cracked tables
wild weeds taking up the periphery
with shouting, bounces
twitching fingers
driving faster than the plow
if blowing, shadows

He licked for blues
and all she could do
was cower behind a curtain
as a menacing dawn
crept over the hills

He had traded doubt for sun
and her days ended in why

do street lamps enjoy rain
or do they whisper
jazz standards
until dawn?

No need for battling whales
or taking coffee on the green,
not when summer is breaking
into an early rapacious cadence.
Meadows aren’t only for frolic.

Rails aren’t matching up
for a smooth ride
but it should be cooler than a mule
that won’t budge
off the mountain of viscous lava.

I want his face in my hands
and the time to finish
an article before the next buzz
of some machine brings us back
from an easy dreaming state.