The sky is so muscular it’s nobody’s business

where the sun went or why. Who wants to know?

A ripped, gray marbled, low-riding bruiser of a sky.

It’s in no mood. Your best bet is to stand

in the parking lot of Mega-Foods

as if on the brink of leaving. Fondle your car keys

like a rosary, or a young snake’s rattle. Maybe
as if on the brink of leaving is the presiding angel

of days like this, and asphalt is her blessing.

It won’t quite rain, nor indicate clearing.

Clouds ride the rooftops like stolen horses.

In fact, there’s a hint of gun-play on the wind,
though maybe that’s just me. It’s a good day

for not taking stock of your life. Hawks

first learned to hover over the blood-

streaked highways on days such as this.

A sheet of newspaper pins itself against the hubcap

of a parked car like an exiled fortune

wanting back in its cookie. Don’t push it

some voice in the brain bristles, though

later it will seem the sky itself has spoken.

Mega-Foods first appeared in Verse Wisconsin and is reprinted here with permission of the author. Max Garland has just finished his two years of service as Wisconsin’s Poet Laureate. For more about Max go here.