Upward mobility

 

Before the storm, 
there is a yellow to the air almost
the same sad brown of the dead
ferns that hang 
from my dead neighbor’s porch
// where the gutters sigh 
and the shutters don’t match
but the house will fetch
a good price-- this 
corner has promise, we’re told // but
someone has missed 
the diagnosis  :  here //
behind the flower pots
and the carefully cut 
weeds // we grow
tired
of sweeping metal jackets
from the doorways,
of putting 
a brave face
on the entirety of our lives so
we all watch 
the storm come // the air thicken,
our weather eyes out
for mares’ tails, for
metaphors // wishing 
for a change,
to be  // every day a different
animal, like the ocean.

 

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