Storm Poetic Bloomings

 

The Passing Storm

 

She was late again.

She rushed past me several times,

gathering her glasses, her purse,

her cell phone.

 

She stopped,

looked at me and glared.

“Why aren’t you getting Jacob up?”

 

“I’m waiting for the storm to pass.”

 

“I am the storm,” she said.

 

“You are the storm.”

 

She left and I got Jacob up.