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Poem

As with all preludes
there is much mummery and mockery,
a delirious glee to be 
just below the overhanging wave,
yet dry enough to prance
and mimic the oncoming monster.

Now the windowpane is dampened
by a stupor of uprooted clouds,
if you touch its cold bare face
a crushed lambency drains into fingertips, 
like sand through an hourglass.

The sky has been secretly smoking,
it has now rubbed the earth
with a last glowing stub.
The cabin fire flares as the generator 
coughs up stutters of apprehension.

“It’s going to be a big one,”
proclaims the sequestered voice
of a wind-up radio;
a nervous twist in the sudden hush
jangles a teacup.

The prelude is still prepping.
Goats have to bawl first,
The cat must count its fine bones
with each pensive lick.

The ‘far-away’ suddenly jumps at you,
even though you have been watching it 
leap across your mind for hours.
The hours themselves have left the stage.
The prologue was overlong,
now the first act has arrived
before its end.

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