Hailstones, Finn Field

Hailstones, Finn Field

A modern car would have folded in on itself
an empty Evian bottle pelted with meteorites.
But I had that '72 Pontiac Ventura. Blue, yet.

Those were days when we ran to all storms
craving proximity to anything unpredictable.
Lusting about the possibility of devastation.

Wanting floods floodier, quakes quakier
hoping the news was worse, we watched.
You gave me the look, I grabbed a jacket.

A tornado in a western county, moving east.
Does anyone need to know more? You
tossed me the keys as we both jumped in.

We reclined on that windshield, waiting
as lightning flashed horizontal. Finn Field
never housing more astute, hometown fans.

Bring it on, suck us on up to Kansas! Do it!
And the first one hit you on the second
exclamation point. And the next, my knee.

Heavenly Top Flites unleashed, we rolled
in opposite directions, laughing, screaming
Lock the doors, you yelled, as we cowered.

Something neither of us imagined, fell down
from somewhere, and we laughed. We knew
then, that moment, that we had done it all.

Tonight, it seems I am dying in this bed.
And the thing I know, as I leave all, is that
your hair is wet, and you want me to Lock --

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