Morning Weather Report Poem by Cheryl Lynn Moyer Peele

The morning air was angry
so I closed my front window
to block the '37th homicide'
seeping under the wooden sill
with a sharp biting scent.

Four shots in my foggy
dream bloated brain
had preceded the cool bloody
face of a twenty year man/child
who suffered only from
place dysfunction.

His young wife now married
to the impermanence of
happiness. Suffocating,

I wedged open the rear
window allowing entry of
the neighboring baby's voice
chirping on the morning breeze,

melancholy falling like dew.