The Storm Poem by robert dickerson

The radio, the TV said 'run'
'evacuate, go'!

Suspecting an overcall
like the guy from Hoboken on the radio,
we transferred in all the little plants
nevertheless, from the terrace,
spiraling each toward heaven, like the storm
itself, and lashed the big ones to the rail,
feeling a little foolish, letting in, in the process,
a bevy of fresh flies, big and rambunctious.
Hey, you never really know-
for only the Past has data, eh?
concrete, incontrovertible,
the future being a good guess, at best.
Time, as usual, would tell.
And this, after an earthquake?