the weatherman closes his umbrella & stands under the rain for a long time, after the taxi drives off.

earlier, he was on tv giving an update about the hurricane: the particulars on the direction, the wind's maximum speed, the storm signals - the weatherman could be reciting these from a telephone directory for all he cared. but he kept on saying the storm's name as if it was a lover scorned, yet still very much adored - like the telephone directory wasn't a book full of strangers at all; the weatherman cleared his throat several times as if it was the first name he ever recognized as being bad news. his hand shook through the tv screen when he hovered it over the satellite image of the violent winds.

what is the weatherman thinking about as he stares at his house, now? his rain boots are filling up with water & he just keeps on standing there, gathering what he can of her -

the weatherman lazily fumbles for his keys & unhurriedly enters his front door, like he is sorry to abandon the noise for an echoing quiet, like the four walls are infinitely more oppressive. & yet as droplets form into a series of familiar satellite images following him from room to room,

the weatherman will refuse to mop his unpolished floor. he will leave the water to dry & in the morning, revisit the path of her leaving by the water stains -

the most of what this weathered man can keep from the hurricane's namesake.

-j.g.

He walks this way, the Weatherman
Bringing me lovely sunshine 
The earth his road, the sky his home, 
He brings these emotions mine. 

He saunters past, the Weatherman
Leaving me dusty and dry
I languish in the choking heat
As he brings this desire by. 

Though I call the Weatherman
He will not hear my cries
Wind from the north and westward
My damp eyes slowly dries. 

But suddenly, the Weatherman,
With hands ice cold and sharp
Reaches through the falling snow
And freezing, touches my heart.

As only the Weatherman can do,
He brings the solemn rain
But I find they are connected somehow
The sky and the inner pain.

Poor weatherman
Always wrong
No matter what

It's almost as if the atmosphere is his opposition
He will never be right

God laughs from above
As He watches the clouds swirl
In exactly the wrong spot

"It's going to rain"
Says the weatherman
"Nope"
Says God