Skip the golf balls, go straight
to hail

the size of tennis balls.
No bounce. As if some kind

of inferior hawk, a kite
flies on the other side

of the highway overpass
before the storm.

Heavier than air, branches
everywhere, deeper puddles

than I can remember
block access to the trail

I want most.

I hear the hotel hum
a tune I don’t recognize

as I pass behind it
on the Loring Greenway.

Three different tones
(my mother would have identified),

three distinct pronunciations
of niche

confuse the rhythm
of my stride.

The cavity will not hold
the latest gang

of turkeys I see crossing
the street near that other greenway.

Light therapy involves more
than these red bulbs can reveal.

An anniversary of sorts
long forgotten, the other party

dead. I am hermetically sealed

from what ricochets off
this aged bark. My hand doesn’t

even shake or feel cold
to the touch.