The Poetry Motel

On the screened in porch, I sit
with a friend I’ve just met in flesh
and we lounge in old chairs
across from one another
in the first lull in our conversation.

Beyond his bowed head lightening
cracks open the night
and I relish the swirling wind
at my ankles and wet back
after a day of oppressing humidity.

The parakeets flutter and spread wings—
chirp their anxiety in the cage
swaying on the same breeze
that brings the row of wind chimes
to life. Electricity waits for its moment.

In the next room, an old Yiddish scholar
tells the story of his being and the listener
interjects every fifth word until
it becomes a Laurel and Hardy skit.
We can only laugh from our bellies
full of life and storm and words