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

permanent TILT?

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,


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