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The Weather Men (a poem)
superjoejr Started conversation Feb 8, 2003
The Weathermen
As the rain collects in the brim of my bowler hat,
and my socks become soft and cold.
I try to control my rage,
try to stop the demon inside me that plucks my vocal cords
and plays the ugly song of obscenities.
I narrow my eyes and feel my breath,
as I push it over my puckered lips.
The weathermen gave me flawed advice.
I picture them shaking black balls behind a glittering curtain,
before they step in front of camera,
smiling bleached smug smiles,
pointing to things behind their backs,
that don’t even exist,
grouping towns and villages,
not taking into account each places particularities.
Next time I’ll ask the man in the next village.
I see him sitting in the park under the dark clouds,
eating his strawberry cake and admiring his paper suit.
Even though he’s had it for years.
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The Weather Men (a poem)
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