This wavering sky and dust-up
leaf-slinging winds charcoaled as massed
crows chasing Tippi Hedren, or the
clawed rail line whir of cloud bellies
bearded with rain. Amid crawling tail
lights the doctor says a furuncle is a boil,
then authorities clatter in past the radio scratch,
another divorced parent gone bat-shit mad.
You say you remember the last one. The greasy
spoon crowd hinged to a stop, televisions
animate with reporters. It was a father, crumpled
his fortune pulling rigged slots. In time kids
will prune curse words, learn to evade fervent
hinky-voiced adults. Windshield wipers retweet
cleared instants. In this moment strained
through rearview mirrors, we are becoming
others, with nothing left to salt away. The entire
world wide-eyed for an emerald Ford sedan.