The wind and the bag of bagels and the possum
take turns at sheltering one by one inside
my tent. This is the possum’s turn. We sit
shivering side by side. We hear the wind
thrashing the bag of bagels across the meadow.
A chime signals time for the players to rotate.
The possum leaves. The bagel bag blows in.
It is scratched and foxed. Each bagel has a voice.
Too many voices. I can’t understand.
The bag squelches them, and in imperfect diction,
it attempts to warn me that the wind is foul.
I look out and see the possum flung past trees
that bend and sway and crack and follow suit.
The bagels screech in innuendo and crescendo
on hearing as I do the fateful chime.
The bag departs. The wind upends my tent.