Hurricane Irene
I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
She’s too busy shopping,
picking up a car here
a tree there
a house to go with them.
I’ve told her our Chevy,
our magnolia, our two kids
aren’t for sale.
But she’s still angling for a test drive,
shaking branches, throwing pennies at our door,
moaning, “You won’t get a better price.”
Which is what the farmer said at the market
when my daughter bought the chicken
she cooked this evening, all of us
joking how he said he’d
sung lullabies to it and
tucked it in at bedtime.
Now, I can try to loosen the covers, but
I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
