Each one, from Cumulus to Cirrus, grew a pair of wings,
Flying south for the winter.
I could feel the cold bite my fingertips
As the sky opened- turning pink to red,
and eventually raven black
Embers littered firewood, crackling in the humid breeze
The scent of soot flurrying about
Mixed with the taste of beer residue
Vaporizing off cans at the bottom of the pit
My great uncle furrowed his brows,
Focused on his watch- the way old people do
I took a deep breath, “that’s midnight air,”
“Uncle Fletcher,” my siblings and I called him.
We’d see him and our Aunt Anne most years
Up north in who-knows-where-now Kentucky.
The clouds stay put since last summer.
I don’t see my family most of the year now.
The people up north don’t call them “buggies,”
Just shopping carts.
Maybe it’s ‘cause they lack an affinity for motor sports.
And here they’re not filled with purple Kool-Aid drink
Like southern poverty,
Nor are the baskets.
No, and the trashcans are cleaner too.
My plan?
I’ll pick up the west and east coasts, one in each hand,
and squish states like South Dakota and Arkansas
To bring things closer.
People will call it avant-garde: a true masterpiece.
The now accordioned highways will say otherwise.
