By Roberta Curley
We boogied on my Dad’s porch.
I whooped out karaoke to Chuck Berry’s
“Sweet Little Sixteen.”
My boyfriend Guy preferred crooning Elvis.
He begged me: “(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear.”
I pleaded: “Chill, Guy. I’m capturing the sky.”
My blue sky was lined
with puffy, white parallelograms.
Who knew this observation of natural
phenomena would shake up his pinballs,
spinning our relationship into a
I’d been studying facets of meteorology.
Guy seemed content to wail along with
my refurbished Victrola.
I cozied up to him, explaining that some
skywatchers see hexagons, triangles—
even quadrilaterals in the firmament.
“That’s pie in the sky,” said Guy, ending with:
“I Want To Walk You Home.” (Fats Domino)
Last I heard, Guy engineered an Uber-like
enterprise called Walk a Date Home.
He’s likely pooh-poohing the constellations,