Weather Girl

Roof shingles are tossed like confetti in a Banshee wind. She says it's going to be a bad weather day, the green screen behind her wobbles as a gust of torrential hailstones rocks the studio, yet her smile stays bright and perky. The wind keeps churning through sparrows and shattering windows. Tornados spring up out of nowhere, devastate homes, then ravish cows as an afterthought. Through a plasma screen the attractive lady distracts my eyes, She grins knowingly I grin back, as we share a moment, elsewhere, death strikes randomly with a made for TV toothy banality. Storms of platitudes continue to numb and transfix. I don't know why some must die and others must keep watching. I can only predict that the weather girls will survive to keep us informed even as our living rooms implode.