Sunday, September 1, 2019

Poem sunday

Storm Coming

I heard something like
A stray dog's low growl
And went outside to check.
There she was---8 feet up---- in a wretched tree
Wedged between a cachectic trunk 
And a crooked scurvied limb.
Hey what’s with that look on your face?
I’ve seen that look before:
The bills are late.
Dad didn’t hear a word you said.
The lovely girl across the bar
Chatting up another guy.
Passed over at work,
Picked last, too short,
Passing another whole day unseen,
Passing the next unable to hide 
The things you want to keep inside.
The feeling the world won’t simply unfurl
Anymore from within but simply hurtles
Forward,clacking and whistling, runaway train
From somewhere around the bend.
But the tracks seem overgrown with weeds--
How can this be? as the whistles scream
And the lights bear down;
You’re frozen in time and place,
A deer spooked halfway across the interstate.
Hey little girl, don't scowl like that.
Hey now, sweet girl, you're still only ten….
She says the boy she likes
Has a crush on her own best friend
And there’s that low rumble again,
Of a train somewhere around the bend.
Or maybe it's a far away thunder.
Those clouds are clumping up gray.
You'd best come down from the fray;
Trees are a bad place to get caught
When the lightning decides to strike.


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