a Weatherman Waits

Dan Boucher

A weatherman waits

his turn—blithely,
cynically—to tap out several smugly
cute turns of phrase in mock
honor of this first
day of the month:

“October is off to a spooky
start as temps drop to below
forty, & pre-Jack-o’-lantern winds approach a frightening sixty
miles ‘n hour.”

A twister rips through the studio, live,
during the weather report,

dealing justice with accidental irony
which I guess we don’t call irony.

Thirty or so State Street sport-gawkers,
their own sentience long past rocked asleep
by autonomic calculations; the mere afterthoughts

of the shot-callers of the
destinies of the shot-callers of the
destinies of the shot-caller-in-chief
—home, asleep, safe—
of the destinies
of the twister’s target.

Forget the irony:
meteorologist cartoonishly
voomed up
the center of the striped-white,
top-down whirling dervish mimic
(meteorology & all)

cue crowd laughter: freakishly
silent & earnestly
out there in the two-dimensional land of television.

The first shear
through the glass wall.