(a postcard poem)
Yesterday, I opted to forgo
free weights class
because the weatherman
said anyone going out
risked getting hit on the head by hail balls
I wasn’t going to take chances my precious gray matter.
Of course, all we got was gray gloom
not so much as a droplet of precipitation.
I send my assistant on a mini-food run.
She gets frozen broccoli with cheese,
popcorn, elbows, and more juice.
I’m ready for this much overhyped storm.
I smile at friend’s friend Facebook comment,
“Irene is facing down
three cities full of the meanest people
this side of the Mason Dixon.
Bitch has been warned.”