Wind Trumps the World
       

Wind that takes the dead
wood from the trees,
that makes our willow drop
its dry branches like a busted thief
emptying his pockets onto the ground,
that tells our flag that flying
is not the same as flirting,
it's a serious affair and nothing glorious
is what it's cracked up to be—
wind trumps the world today.
Leaves, torn wrappers tear by,
commuters late for their train,
hats lift and slips show, umbrellas
once as upright as lollipops
flip end over end in the gale,
while garbage lids rise
gyroscopic off their knocked over cans,
mutter screw it there's got to be more
to We than this and roll down the road—
and the road, a metropolis in Rapture,
millions of grains of dust gone up
to meet those wild beckoning arms.
Every chink in our reprobate house
pants its confession now,
and the screen door, finally
at its limit, flies open like a secretary
backhanding her blowhard boss.

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Copyright © 2017 Garret Keizer All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission