The Storm God On Thursdays: The Day The Bus Did Not (Yet) Come Poem by Nathaniel A.Wallace

Thursday is always rainy - like the name!
My mind gets rereleased in the cool air;
My fingers grow numb in the despondent afternoon
Whether or not there is to do
There is not much left to say.

La Nina came in wet, but not so cold
I respond, cavalier as snow, posterior -
But that is my friend's contemplation.
Nothing has happened yet, but shivering
Cold wariness of the dins of life, untold
Of story, we to tell,
Of old, modern shock;
It is our epitome, what ye
Have failed yet to do, and what
Yet fail to see.
By the turn of this metallic stairwell
That construes at every summation
With hardy consternation
It is almost as if no one cares for upset, anymore
Than (location, location, location) fear of Death,
From falling flat on your face...
My puddles
Will wet you; my wind,
Will arrest you! Until you forget: no-thing or nothing
So to speak; it is almost as if
Of those of us, who can still spellcast, rain-dance,
I, only I, care for the rain anymore?

There is not much left to say.
Whether or not there is to do
My fingers are numb in the despondent afternoon
My mind is rereleased in the cool air;
And Thursday is always rainy - so like the name!