Coup de Foudre

Sleeves rolled up,
he's a working man's magus.
Just watch: he's

about to throw open arms
in sheer thrill or
alarm. Go ahead,

climb those walls. You're
not in thrall. You're
not going to believe what

the air dragged in
like a spark on a leash--
in Nobody's farm

the ball goes to you,
a sad dog, dressed in
svelte penumbras;

the jittery shadows
welded to the walls,
motes in the weepy

eye like xmas
lights, following
you out the door

& down the drain like
wedding bling,
lightning lightening the load

of the hired man, the karaoke
dot held its tongue
while the song fell flat

on the floor of the barn.