And then the storm throwing
its weight about
as we falter, all of us, by windows, grateful
for the coming of golf balls -- the comical hail.
We love the unexpected, the cheap thrills; a dime
at our feet, placed there by the phantom of dimes --
that old lady who refuses to die. She walks
among us with her endless itinerary of coins.
Every family has its myth, the unexplainable news.
We tell it now and then over coffee or in parks
because we feel it out there happening to us;
the man playing his found whistle could be it;
that tune his blind fingers are working at,
could be our small awakening. A Buick's plate
driving home, signaling to that other architecture
we carry inside. Sometimes it is all we have --
the unusual hail come down with its few surprises.
The man I know putting his gun back.
It happens. The dimes at our feet, this singing.