Wind Slug

The wind slugs
my face, tips me to one side,
tilts my hair into horizontal
flaps. The sky, so bright and blue,
makes my eyes sting and squint--sunglasses
on a table, I forgot them. Champion of air,
someone on earth is just making
the best of things. Old newspapers
rip down Henry Street
like tumbleweeds in a western movie
to the soundtrack of bluster
and bellow. I am bound to this
morning as a man tied to a mast
on a ship bobbing on the Atlantic.