Handful of Blue Sky

the middle-aged man in the hotel room
stole an umbrella from a public beach
had lips as red as sideshow devil
and as hot as coffee fresh
from the tiny microwave

he lodged that striped umbrella
between the front bucket seats
as he drove to the local dive
in his lap a rumpled paper bag
holding a brown wig he called "bunny"

he wanted you
to dress like a French maid
and scuttle across the floor
like a soft shelled crab
he wanted you

on your knees and open
mouthed like the cave of Orpheus
through which he would play
his untuned lyre and prophesy
all the troubles of the world

what you gave him
instead was a declaration
of independence disguised
as a handful of blue sky
and a shaker of salt

Hillary Lyon is founder of and editor for the small poetry house, Subsynchronous Press. Her work has appeared in EOAGH, Shadow Train, Eternal Haunted Summer, Red River Review, and Red Fez, among others. She lives in southern Arizona.