Composure Is a Gift the Gods Sometimes Bestow [1]
Coyotes howl back and forth at either end of my block just after 3:30 a.m. Already awake, I’m ready to run with that pack. Darkness equalizes. Their baying’s more welcome than keeping a body still, the sapphire-blue comforter weightier than a willingness to slumber. No neighbors pretending mirrors are windows, offering whispers which masquerade silence. The Archangel Gabriel’s a ringer for Miles Davis. Observing. Trumpet in hand to serenade the world’s end. He couldn’t blow a finer solo. Grey fur and a bouncing gait have advantages. Such as feeling less like prey.
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[1] Title taken from the poem “In My Way / On My Way,” in the collection Hotel Lautréamont.
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Stink Eye Magazine 