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Greg Razran

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The Night I Became a Hurricane
by Greg Razran

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

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Recent poems by Greg Razran
•  The Hunter
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           >> View all 37

I am done with my chicken rice soup,
And the blonde waitress is ringing me up.
You are always in and out, she says,
like the wind… we'll call you 'the wind.'
I don't know, I say, it doesn't sound right.
How about 'breeze'? she doesn't give up.
We're getting there, I say, I can be a breeze.
Uhh.. she says, and what if we called you 'hurricane?'
That one makes me laugh out loud; she is good.
A hurricane came in and took a bowl of soup,
I say, I like that, I like that a lot.
She is looking right at me with those green eyes;
She is still beautiful, but most people don't see it.
She drops the change in the palm of my hand,
Smiles a tired smile.
It starts to rain, while I drive home.
The street-lights look smeared in the dark.
But I feel good. I feel real good.

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Reviewed by Josephine Bohen 11/20/2002
you hurricane you
this is good very good
loved the moment, and introspect
Reviewed by Tim Horton (Reader) 11/20/2002
You've shown that even the oblivious are noticed. No matter how short their stay. Maybe there's some subliminal messages with what she said. Good piece.
Reviewed by jing javier 11/19/2002
very nice write..
Reviewed by megan t 11/19/2002
great! you say a lot with very few words, your writing doesn't leave me tired trying to follow along.

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