rained out

at dawn there will
be an execution of all
the weathermen who have
gotten the forecast wrong,
again. hardly ever right.
they have everything but
a window. when it's raining
they don't know.
when it's windy, they have
no clue. they are in
the bunker staring at
radar screens, at dials
and graphs, buttons,
trying desperately to
know what my knees and
joints could tell them
if only they'd call us
old people to tell them
when the sky will be grey
or blue.