Weather Girl
Satellite dishes are blown apart
in the wind.
She says it's going to be a bad weather day,
but her smile is bright and perky.
The wind keeps churning through sparrows
and windows.
On a plasma screen
death strikes us with a toothy banality.
The weather girl is now flapping her arms,
like a goose being sucked through a funnel cloud
of ever widening platitudes.
I don't know why some people die
in bad weather and some survive.
I can only predict
that weather girls will - in any season
appear in unseasonable frocks
and then honk at us.
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