The wind was full of music.
In pulsating waves he heard Mariachi, Grateful Dead and radio.
Accented by whistling explosions that cut all the rhythms.
There was no conductor for the chaos,
just random ebb and flow, moving with the leaves.
His little dog was terrorized,
panting and trying to disappear inside the washing machine.
Drawing by Eugene Zimmerman, New York Public Library Digital Collection, in the Public Domain
Friday night, workin’ the stoop.
Thinking over the odds.
Lady luck don’t give a…
She’s fickle, Mickey’s in a slump.
Put his last 25 bucks on a hard 10.
Felt pretty good, this time it came back around.
Had a hot hand, you know how it goes.
A little walkin’ around money for the weekend.
They built themselves a flying machine.
A bird with a wind up mechanism that flapped its wings.
It was the only time they all had that year.
It flew towards the lake and was lost in the weeds.
Mickey tried with all his might to stop it from becoming the story of their time together.
Sometimes we desperately want to control the narratives we remember.
“I found something of yours…” he said sneaking him the bird.
Then later, “Did you leave this in the break room?”
Pulling the finger out from his pocket.
Finally, as they were getting on the elevator.
“Your wife called and asked me to give you this.”
Mickey wondered how this asshat got to be CEO.
Mickey couldn’t remember who.
Taught him the eyelash brush across the cheek.
A tender, whisper of a kiss.
Now he shared it with his little boy.
And watched the ideas converge gently in his innocence.
He felt a bit embarrassed.
But there was no one else around.
Just the two of them, father and son.
Spinning sky, clouds flying, thunder burst elastic evident.
Beaver tail slapping, fox and badger in cahoots.
Wolves visible on the distant ridge.
Calling out the Great Spirit via the mentor,
I Ching change visionary:
“Could I, after all the crazy car rides be…and the answer came, ‘It is favorable to cross the great water.’”