From the Fishouse

She spins in the sky with gritty guys.
Before long, she’s tapped off, her underside,
slack. Why, that last rogue even stole
two cone-shaped jars full of coins
their mother left. He disappeared into the low
country, certain he could hide out in tall grass.

This lapse leveled her good eye,
dulled her delight for speed.
She blew through blues joints
in a few of the smaller towns
before she was found, crying in streets
flooded by her tears, her funnel-shaped dress
wilting, edges frayed from the friction
of too much slow dancing.

Hitting that last parish drained what remained
of her beautiful breath, flattened the gloss
of her silky spiral. She recalled spells of weather,
hatchets in the attic, the great twister they rode
at the amusement park.