He comes gusting out of the house the screen door a thunderclap behind him.
He moves like a black cloud over the lawn and ---stops.
A hand in his mind grabs a purple crayon of anger and messes the clean sky.
He sits on the steps, his eye drawing a mustache on the face in the tree.
As his weather clears, his rage dripping away,
wisecracks and wonderment spring up like dandelions.