City silence
ironically agitating the hurls of lightning.
The midnight rain was bitter
as your thrice divorced uncle
teeming with vulture anxiety.

When the tyrant was still
in short pants, the only thing he wished
was to escape from individual limitation.
He was on par with Hamlet
coated in sweet-scented stuff.

How does one really learn to fly?
The answers be given
as an obliged gesture.
But he was stuck
between a crutch and a hard place.

Sleeping through the winter
he sidestepped it all.
And as a once kind gesture he told me:
“Trust me, I’m your ally.
Because I love you.”

But it’s our cat
this beast of a storm
and your deadbeat of an uncle.
Do not fear the macho,
but fear the meek.