After the Blue Angels on Sunday bursting
between buildings at North Avenue Beach,
whipping sound like circular thunder around
Lake Michigan, smooth and menacing as sharks,
dipping jetwings like fins as they screech past
each other from opposite sides of the lake almost
colliding from where we watch but thin as sideways
angel fish above the still boats, your behavior
on Monday afternoon wasn’t so bad, talking
a blue streak, gesticulating a wingspread
in your yellow shirt ideas smooth as metal and
mercurial, too slippery to refute. Tonight you will
bike home from work, as usual, eat the lasagna
I’ve prepared, then, after dinner, sit across from me,
subdued, as you quietly select the next position
for your backgammon piece on the checkered
game board.