Chuckrock Ribbed Moon Cold
(working title)

Cold came overnight
and the roof pitch
finally hardened up
wax-like, like wax
drying in a jar.

The door did not stick
to the frame like before
when it was swollen
in heat.

Out on the road
we walked and listened
for rattling sounds
that marked our steps,
weathershrunk hearts
that do not fit where
they once were squeezed
in by ribs.
It is a sound that
grows closer to comfort
all the time.

Dogs acting strange
and my lungs labored
taking down mucus
with each inhalation.
Smoke from our
cigarettes floated up
freely, finally
and we blessed the
rising moon before
chucking rocks,
one tearing her cheek
and turning her away.

An Indian summer is
sure to follow,
nothing this good can
last much longer
than its ribs can hold.

The moon is sure
to have her revenge.