Come midnight, you reach for me
across a vacuous bed. Instead,
I slumber upon ramshackle sofa,
hug worn velveteen pillows
The Weather Channel – my lullaby.
Taste the petrichor after our storm,
this cyclonic swirl
around us … between us … within us.
I suspect you know more
about the weather than you disclose.
I was the one when tornadoes came
to Alabama … to Georgia … to Indiana,
who hovered with babies in the bathtub
as the lion roared riding the train.
A new storm approaches.
I suggest you grab your raincoat
and this time—
don’t forget your rubbers.