Gandhi with the Wind 

It doesn’t matter how I know this woman
I just know her, and you do.

I’d been out for a spin, come back in
she was in the bathroom so I killed time
looking at her refrigerator door.

Taped up there was Jane Goodall
and Obama
and Gandhi
and Martin Luther King
and Maya Angelou 
and Pete Singer 
and Buddha. 

I could hear her coming out of the bathroom
and down the hall, so one last big swallow of
the Starbucks, and I dropped the cup in 
the recycling bin. 

She stopped in the door; staring, alarmed. 
I sniffed for smoke; it was clear as mountain-fresh air. 
I checked my fly; it was flown. 

“Wrong color, wrong bin,” she said. And waited, glaring.

I was going to ask what color to put her in, instead, 

went for out another, permanent spin.