The sun is a cup turned upside down
on rooftops of tv lit stucco homes.
He fondles a single string on his
Gibson. The gravel in his voice kicks

up as he croons about the sting of
an affair - years to follow, it would
leave a faint buzz, like a yellow-
jacket, making his blood smart.

She stares into the chimney's gullet -
February whistles up her skirt,
exposing Pilates-perfect legs. He
sets the guitar next to a brick-pile.

If their lips were beggars, the kiss
would be broth boiling in a cauldron.
His hands, like mantras, make tunnels
hum inside her: why can�t that energy

eagle up his soul? The constant drip
of her love gives him the wingspan
of a crow. She could have rescued
any down-and-out man. The horizon

is now a closed cupboard. She knows
he�ll break the code of behavior
when the air in his ballooned
gratitude begins to let her down.




�2007 by Yolanda Calderon-Horn