BOMB CYCLONE IN ATHENS

The wind slapped me like Crazy Aunt Blossom
did when she lost it — nieces, nephews, even
adult relations scared shitless of her, so everyone
just stood around, whistling and regarding
something else, which proves history does
repeat itself — air, my silent witness
while the wind has its way with my cheeks
and nose, both desiccated scarlet — although
a half-mile remains in my jog — thoughts
speculating on whether someone will
find me in fetal position on Springdale,
like an Incan mummy from some stratospheric
Andean cave, nothing left but shoe-leather skin,
heart, liver and lungs, which reminds me of the
effort needed to really live — pump primed every
day with taste, touch and scent — piney candles —
warm showers reverting us to the sea
of the unborn, handmade pasta, and Brunello,
but the temperature is now 18 Fahrenheit,
sans that showoff, Mr. Wind Chill, and I hang
a left on Woodlawn Avenue, abandoning
this endorphin fantasy of jogging
during a Bomb Cyclone, and head for home
as my nose starts running faster than my feet

Salvation South, March 9, 2023