A HAIL STORM DURING SUMMER IN TAMPA
White chunks roll down from a roof
Like dice tossed in Mallarmé , I gazed
At my finger the white chunk touched,
It touched the white band left by
My tossed-away wedding ring,
And turned it red, white, and blue.
The white chunk fell down to the ground
To melt in shape of a skull
That is often found in a Poe Story.
Even the skull began to disappear,
As did he flag colors of my fingers.
One of the neighborhood whores,
The one that paints her fingernails mauve
And has a Whistler Nocturne
Hanging on her bedroom wall saw
Me staring at my hand whose skin
Had now turned to normal coloration
And waved as she got an old pick-up truck.
Duane Locke lives hermetically by an ancient oak, an underground stream, and an osprey’s nest in rural Lakeland, Florida. He has as of January 2010 had 6,513 different poems published as well as twenty one books of poetry. Duane has a Ph. D, specializing in English Metaphysical Poetry (Donne to Marvel). His interests include philosophy (PostModern, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Martin Heidegger), insects, butterflies, birds, opera, Mahler, and Viennese music.