The Wind

It starts out as a conversation

and ends up raging

in a voice beyond reason

a courier of unease

jabbing a finger

into your chest

crossing a line

it began as a walk

with talk in whispered

tones sharing moments

of embarrassment and regret

like in the early

throes of love

then something

about the painter

at the party

who made a clumsy pass

in the kitchen

touching your breasts and ass

what painter

it was nothing

he was drunk

you never mentioned

this before

in a voice pushing against

the velvet

curtain of the night

the wind is like that

it starts out as a conversation

and ends up raging

stealing the air from your lips

and slamming it against the side

of your face

and the bed shakes 

in the pounding gale

in the house built

on a hill overlooking the sea

and the roof struts

hum in dark tones

the wind plucking hard at the clapboard

and the shingles as it races

in and out of the trees

like a lover in a game

of hide and seek with

no intention of ever

being found and the child

within is rattled by the force

parents in another room

raging and mean spirited

conjured by a B movie medium

the wind is like that

it starts out civil

and ends up with its shoes off

its stockings torn at the toes

kicking against the door

having forgotten the keys