The wind threatens him with take-off,
hair blasted free of Brylcreem contours,
coattails flapping like a punk bar.
He’s thrown his arms out to the elements,
bellowing madly like Lear
(or are the words of a barroom ballad
he flings to the wind’s indifference?)
He’s a distant figure on a hillside,
a blur in the background of a photograph,
the guest you can’t remember inviting.
You’re crossing the street now,
eyes elsewhere, intent on avoiding him,
taking care not to hear what he’s saying.
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