We played old albums in a storm,
heard Mathis croon across the thunder,
and Chuck Berry's piano rocking the hail.
The beer was cold then gone, and a siren
blared. We laughed since we were still
the boys who rode tornadoes, kicking clouds
across the valley like rags. We played Haley's
stuff, and opened the door to the back porch,
could hear devils whispering their prayers
in the weeds. A wet moth flew in the house.
Then a big mama wind tore by like a sharp knife
thrown at heaven. And the electricity went off,
and you could see the first pull of Billy's joint
winking one time, then nothing but a mean, dark
midnight that tooled the whole world with silence.