Weathergirl Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

She plays this game
the weathergirl
always the same
question she poses
beside the torn edges
of this sea bound scrap
rough as a present ravaged
by midnight christmas kid
and rightly thinks she
is more arresting
than the crosshairs
of where I live,
describes whats coming
with balletic hyperbole
and a faintly mocking smile
that says
these arrows that curve
towards my fluttering heart
are explained by isobars
so close together and
that's the only intimacy
youre allowed but even she
cant see the unknown calamity
that beset her hemispheres
her box of toys, joys blown
by something
not factored in
squeezed between
something
rumbling at her feet