(in the parlance of my mother)
meaning rain and sun together, a cold knife
trimming clouds from one another.
What’s a city? A million lives, with no life
of its own; these poems are artifice. Why bother?
Because he wants to know big Houston’s charms,
the arms that hold it: Beltway 8 and Loop 610.
Or maybe he would cheat a one specific harm,
fake out the cookie monsters, pretend
he lives for karma or he’s charming.
The rain’s stopped. He boils water, zips the tent.
W.F. Roby is a poet and artist living in Texas. His work has appeared in 32 Poems, Tri-Quarterly and storySouth.
