Warm wind rides in on the Ides of March

  in the mood to seduce some young slush

  Combs thin lawn’s sleep strewn hair

  Defrosts maple for quick sugar rush

  Our drunk chinook staggers and swirls,

  drags off a thousand damp cigarette butts

  Fills lungs with soot and city exhaust

  Inhales the scent of a garden corrupt

  Knocks over bottle of prone guttered man,

  sleeping sound, and breaking his wind

  His spill of vodka, a reminder of Caesar

  Just where have the Ides of March been?

  Wind cuts across dark vacant lot,

  to ruffle carpet of rubble and steel

  Swoops down to honk horn of abandoned car,

  slashed seat swiftly slaps against wheel

  He chuckles and gives sagging bumper a squeeze

  where chromed letters spell out ‘TOR_ NADO’

  He dances his way into empty gas tank,

  dry as assassin’s bravado

  His amusement complete,

  he buffets down street

  to warmly greet his partner El Nino

  c) C. Butler 2003