Hurricane Season

Hurricane Season


I stand on one blue eye
In the center and it's clear
Unless I slide down the lens
When the phone rings and my Mom
Opens up the funnel to another
Cataclysm of broken debris
Sucking past my ears.
I blink
And the sky's an unmanageable terror.
I gauge the winds
Unable to tell
If this one's bigger than the last,
Always afraid of
Over-reacting
Even when I'm flattened
By an incidental blow.
That's when my Dad
Gets on the phone,
The wind a dim siren
Behind him. He says
I'm lucky to be in Jersey.
Later we'll all be
Numb from the storm,
Our ears less keen and
We'll bring up old storms
In a matter of fact tone;
Try to mix and match
The currents and the damage.
When the sun comes out,
Floating in surreal blue,
I'm all talked and figured out
And so I say nothing
But I'll look at you and wonder:
Do you have storms?

Thank you Ma'am!