A day away from June; a morning without a biting wind, a sun that warms. You’d do well to look upon this with suspicion, for ours is a city does not give its love so freely.
Another day of rain, and the situation at Noah’s Bodega intensifies.
Missed Connections for Other People
For SWF, From everyone on the 71
You dripped your umbrella drips into our laps, then you shook it out like it was a spiny, polka-dotted dog.
No one on this bus wants to pursue a relationship with you.
A note from the seasonally affected.
By the time we reached midtown, the deluge had nearly taken down our vessel, an untrustworthy craft sent listing by a relentless black river. If I should not make it, please, let them say I fought like a lion.
If you say so.
Don’t call it a comeback.
Unseasonable rain, and the rally thongs are blooming early.
“Air conditioning.” The Examiner means standing in the yogurt aisle at Safeway.
Paint a sun up there while you’re at it.
This just in: the weather’s bitchin’.
There, happy now?
To the Weather, Being A Pome About What is Not Happening Outside
To the window they pressed their noses close
with a fevered hope that matched the chill
of outside drear and cloud: a hoped-for thrill
a night of hefty drifts and angels made of snow.
But oh what was there to be done
upon spying the sight of such a wet night
their wish gone to melt neath a midnight sun!
They had missed their chance to show up the right coast
to shout, “See! You’ve nothing over which to boast!”
A childish foot-stomp, cap without a feather,
“And you always say that we’ve no such thing as weather!”
Petals on a wet, black bough.
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