Hurricane Rita
Through the white noise of the radio
I hear you have almost made landfall
And I think of what this means.
A house parked on top of a car.
In perpetual gridlock, reports
Already talk of sporadic rainfall,
And I recall your thermal image.
Cloud clusters spinning in concentric circles.
I imagine the deserted towns.
Traffic lights still changing
Red to green, green to red (the quiet)
As you complete another eye-wall cycle.
Front lawns stack up unread news,
Would be headlines shunted to the second page,
Waiting for your spinning funnels
To regurgitate and recycle the land.
Here, motionless on interstate 45
I see in my rear-view mirror,
Beyond a thousand cars,
The stillness of my kitchen.
Where nothing but time watches
Over the lamb I offer you,
Still roasting in the oven,
Slowly turning black.
