A timely dance ‘fore we’re last curled.
While riding on my upper back, she whispers that she wants a Peloton.
No one will threaten her there.
Even when near death they still will not trust him.
I follow the footrace to the sun-washed crest.
And moon fizz in Coeur d’Alene.
Sits in his rain scented square.
He kicks up dust with his boot heels.
I watch the zigzagging contrails slice up the dark, blue sky with growing alarm.
My gypsy grandmother pokes through the rear passenger window.