A weather reader gives it her all
after loading on enough lip gloss
to grease the way to CBS.
She and her lips point to a map
iconed with colorful dots and blobs
and her perkiness hits
the Richter scale.   See the yellow?
she burbles.  See the red?
Looks like a fertilized egg –
can I say fertile? – okay, not.
White swirl you see over the sea --
grey, whatever – is wind
going – ‘sec while I check –
104 mph!  Seems to me that’s a lot.
But the storm may be weakening
as I speak.  Won’t blow away
Tennessee, don’t worry, heh-heh.
Just be sure you have plenty
of food, water and candles
and know how to kiss your never mind.
But most stores have sold out,
so be prepared to beg.  Yata-
yata-burble-b’bye.

In other words, batten the hatches
or courser words to that effect.
Isabel’s on the way!

Why do we name them
after women?   Why
do we name them
after men?   We should name them
for what they create: Chaos’s
evil, unwanted children, aided
by the spoilage we have laid
to air, water and forest.  Nature
has always had a cruel side.
Now she is on a warpath
that we cleared?   Oh my.

Rather than hold their breath
until they’re blue, hurricanes eye
to dirvishes that pin
anything set in glue,
then drown or relocate the rest
until they stop throwing a fit.
What woman would do tha–. . .
Ah, er, uh, ‘bye.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, September, 2003