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Too Late to Go Over Your Words

The wind chimes tried to warn you
but you were too busy being seduced
by the pitter-patter of rain
reminding you of the tin roof
on the tool shed
behind your grandmother’s house
where one summer
you tried to read all the books
in your grandfather’s library.
Your achievement fell short
but was impressive enough
for those gathered ‘round the shortwave.
Later you dialed her number
and wowed her with some makeshift whatnot.
That moment will resurface.
Perhaps the misspellings
or the absence of transitionals
will suffice to identify you
as the author who tried to follow
the path to heaven. Doubtless
your meaning will again be misconstrued
taken out back by two burly bouncers.
It’s nothing personal.