the window waiting for the promised
storm.
waiting on the wind.
and rain.
the deluge to begin.
waiting on
the fury of gusts to ravage
the land
to overflow
the stream.
channel seven eight and nine
swore
their lives
on it.
they were on the roof
in their yellow rain
coats,
pointing at some distant
slice of lightning.
they promised.
they warned us to batten
down the hatches,
to get into the cellar,
grab toto
and to call your next
of kin.
get out the candles,
charge your phones now.
get out the limes
and gin.
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