You needn’t be born a Bourbon
To dream your funereal deluge,
Some climactic climatic disturbance
To rain out the end of your reign.
A desultory drizzle of tears
Is the most that most of us get,
Precious precipitation
But scarcely the torrent we merit.
We’d prefer a proportionate downpour
But will settle for rills swelling
And basements portentously flooded—
Though even some frustrated faucets
Would do, a drop in the pressure,
Ice in the pipes of the world.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Asters
The asters bloom amid late-summer heat,Low-lying stars that will not linger longAnd bend their sprays beneath the…
To Live Fittingly
Why do the humanities face such a hostile climate? In part it’s because academics have excluded ordinary,…
Early Arrival
Last year we laid squares of sodDown in our bare yard. At first,Pale, slender spears grew tall…
