THE NEXT STORM

I have lost track of the circus
—Wall Street, Washington and Cairo—
traveling round the globe, elephants
raising tents for another clown show.

When I was a kid it was communists,
socialists with big hearts feeding a world
in line for their daily ration, a man couldn’t
get ahead—do no better than the next.

We were afraid of Khrushchev, and Castro—
stirred-up like squirrels-in-spring digging
bomb shelters for generals a long ways
from nuclear warheads and missile silos.

Slim Pickens fanning his hat, spurring
our last act all the way to down to the earth.
A Cold War warmed-up in Vietnam,
and we became the enemy at Kent State.

These old oaks, nearly leafless, arms
turned-up like natives ready for a rain
take human shape in our dry delirium,
searching for sign, for that detail

that might unlock it all, help us
understand. Nearly naked, dry sycamore
leaves carpet the creek bank, the sun
ignites white trunks—it’s beautiful

without the rain, and somehow cows
and calves are fat. No one complains
or prays beneath this high-pressure haze—
we just watch and wait for the next storm.