It’s happening again—distortion
in the sky. Not another season
in sight. The man in a neon vest drops

his shovel. A bus rolls up—
wheels on a new white blanket.
Won’t last. Disintegration

at ground level. I watch from my skyway
perch—it is warm up
inside. Which one in stupid hat and gloves

is you? I gave up the search
decades ago. Now I extinguish the light.