Whistling, Badly

To oust contempt from its long-held seat in being,

I sit on this rock in the hills and try badly to whistle.

The inability to produce song from my lips is

the grievance fuel and firm indigence

of my life.

But now on this rock I listen to the wind

whistling rather pathetically too----

a smooth and voiceless W-H-O-O-O.

Far more preferable is this soft breath blowing

to a squealing ballyhoo.

How can one’s heart stay hateful

when the wind whistles

like a bigger boob than you?