The Man Who Made Clouds by David Gross

Went by once to visit my buddy, Ben.
It was a miserable January night in a past life.
Layers of sooty snow shivered on sidewalks
suggesting treachery and broken bones.

It was around two in the morning when I pulled into
the trailer court where the manager hid Ben's place
all the way back behind a hob-cobbled pole-barn.

As my pickup clunked into the drive his backdoor flew open.
First I thought the joint was on fire
then realized it was just steam billowing out
and after cautiously sliding through the front door
I called, Hey, what's going on?
                                          Making clouds, he answered
as he lifted lids off two huge soup-pots boiling to beat hell
on the stovetop and kicked open the door
as a cumulus drifted up out into the black, starry sky.

David Gross is a retired journeyman carpenter and poet living in the hills of southern Ilinois. He has published poems and reviews in scores of literary and small-press journals. His most recent collection is Little Egypt (Wyld Rose Press, 2017).