The wind propels the whir and whine
of unseen highway wheels over the trees.
I take a moment to ponder why I hear it today
when usually I don’t. Maybe
I just don’t listen.
This Monday morning I wonder where
all those tires are going
besides north south east west.
Would the sun and that
hazy full-moon erasure
in dawn’s graphite-rubbed sky
whirl off-course if we obey
the whoosh that just amped
from caress to love tap on my cheek?
Before Miss Sandy decides
to slap some sense into me,
I wet my mind’s finger, raising it
to gauge her direction once more.
I’m sure I heard the remaining
wind-reddened hands of the oaks
applaud when I turn downwind,
whistling a random Warren Zevon song.
I think it’s “Life’ll Kill Ya.”