poem of the day 08.19.11

the weatherman

the weatherman warns us
of another humid one
while i sit here in old humid shorts
stinking of beer and wine
wondering who in the hell this man is

the weatherman
with his smug voice
laughs at the humidity
because he knows that next year
he’ll still be able to pay his bills

the weatherman
so calm and reassuring
says it will be ninety today
forgetting that last friday
he told us that it would be eighty-one

this weatherman
he can’t get his shit together
neither can i
i haven’t gotten a story published in months
and i keep sinking deeper and deeper
into my backup plan

the weatherman
he doesn’t have any guts
he just hides behind this radio
he’s probably never pounded out a poem
before the sun has come up
he’s probably never
gone to work with a hangover

this weatherman
just knows fahrenheit
he never thinks in celsius
he’s never met a high pressure system
that he didn’t like
or a low pressure one
that he couldn’t relate to

the weatherman
he just sits in his little booth
protected in his little world
reading off today’s temperature
like a good automaton
never breaking a sweat

this weatherman
he’s checking the radar
for another cataclysmic event
he’s got earth shattering news
on his mind
while the rest of us sit in traffic
our lunches making us sick in the heat

the weatherman
he’s hoping for something big
something so catastrophic
a flood, tornado, hurricane, or tsunami
that it’ll give him a name
so that the next time
you hear his voice

it’ll be during the sports report.