The Storm Lll Poem by robert dickerson

Meanwhile, the storm was taking its time
slowly flinging its way (one can imagine)
up the coast, mile by mile,
like a djinn on a rug, flying, laughing,
watching its watch, studying its blackberry,
like any subway slider.
Where was it? we wondered.
When would it make its sousy presence known?
When would we hear the banshee?
'Not til Sunday morning', sang a chorus of headlines.
'Oh, yeh'.

So we unbagged a dozen candles,
checked all the flashlights
fielded calls from the West Coast
telling us EXACTLY what to do,
noticed the sad un-peopling of the streets,
sat forlornly in a living room filled with plants
who really wanted to be outside-
a sort of air-conditioned arboretum,
scanned the birdless sky
(animals can tell, you know)
amused ourselves awhile singing 'Goodnight Irene'
tried to get used to cabin fever
in the midst of a metropolis,
clenched our fists, closed our eyes,
and waited for the storm.