my quiet cell
my office/house shell
my body held
six stories high
above ground
surrounded by
life in air:
one man paints, another climbs
through a window, pigeons
come and go, party sounds
below, a sweater hangs
to dry, rain rolls down
to flowers abbreviated
in boxes. Will my rooftop
bloom shorten too?
There you are
On the floor
What tales you could tell
An adventure behind
Every grimy smudge
The spot of green
The blotch of brown
Against a white background
Running across
A muddy field
Sliding through
The grass
The miles
You've run
The games
You've played
Where is your Partner—lost
Now you're alone
Discarded
Air, hot and heavy
Rays of yellow stream
Through puffs of white
Gray creeps from horizon to horizon
The Zephyr carries the scent of unrest
As Palms sway in the breeze
White flashes in clouds of gray
Rumbles float on the wind
Over the distant desert
Gray turns to black
Lightning knifes the darkness
Cannon's roar echoes from the hills
Gale-whipped rain fills the air
Dry sand, now a raging torrent
Trees surrender
To the onslaught
A flash
A crash
Silence
We played cards.
My nine-year-old
Partner
Was cheating.
It is not fair,
I said.
Life is not fair,
He said.
Why? I asked.
Because
Of the stupid money,
He answered.