Blow Hard

The storm’s approach incites foreboding,
major tins of tuna loading,
jugs of water, sheets of wood,
a line where 90 people stood.

Frantic educated guesses,

forecast catastrophic messes.
Landfall could be my backyard;
I tell the fruit trees – “Be on guard.”

Blow by blow conditions worsen,

men of grace and style are cursing.
Women, children join the clamor,
“pass the chips!” no, “find the hammer!”

A blackout tests our wits and candles,

how much hardship can we handle?
Fan me with a paper plate
and disregard that smell you hate.

In the night it’s hard to slumber,

your house could be a pile of lumber.
You wonder why you’ve been forsaken,
fearing death or endless raking.

Then the danger peaks and passes,

you open doors and nothing crashes.
Slowly, you regain your nerve . . .

“Yeah, I knew the hurricane would swerve!”