An Intruder 5 Cont. Poem by Morgan Michaels

That night there was a terrible storm.
The winds whistled like bombs falling,
Seeking but not finding their intended
Targets, then exploding anyway,
sowing fluid ruin. It was neverever still;
Rain pelted the windowpane
With individual drops that coalesced
Into shifty-eyed gremlins, flattening their
Noses against the glass, emitting their tongues,
Rapping and demanding entry.
Lightning ripped the sky from the Bridge
Of Brooklyn to the Heights of Inwood
And made the room momently bright
With flickering, livid pseudo-daylight. Profundo
Thunder banged a kettle, now and then
Or rattled heaven's bowl, or
Sang jagged basso in the unholy choir of elements.
Great, sturgeon-like winds swam north to south
Nosing around shreds of red-underlit cloud (presumably)
And slipping about the tops of skyscrapers.
Something urn-like, made of pressed plastic
Rolled around hollowly in my dreams
Troubling them like a letter from a lawyer.
I imagined Pigeon in her flowerpot
The pot slowly filling up with rainwater,
The pale eggs submerged (mostly) and Pigeon's
Protective wings outspread, trying desperately
Futily to shield them from the rain.

The first thing I did, next (actually rather nice)
Morning was to open the porch door and...