The most fashionable hurricanes prowl the Atlantic runway with their drapery swirling. Meanwhile we fuss over the frostbit garden, the withdrawn plants yellow as pyrites. You want to run off and join the circus. That’s a safe ambition because there aren’t any more circuses to join. I want to become a lighthouse keeper, but all the lighthouses are automated. I’m too old to become a meteorologist and cozy up to those hurricanes. I’m too old to do anything but sink into a mud bath at a trendy spa. You hate spas, prefer playing with the feral cats at the shelter. I enjoy that as well, but it’s difficult to overcome the cats’ fear of humans. We are indeed a frightful pair with our uncombed mops and wrinkled expressions. Meanwhile Congress is in disarray, war has soiled the Middle East, and our trip to Paris was canceled for lack of interest. The Eiffel Tower will have to swallow its disappointment. The Louvre will have to flash its wares without our awestruck gaze. The fashionable hurricanes would like to squelch air travel, but the big planes gracefully duck and dodge the way we do in our daily quarrels.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
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