weathermen

The black hole in the barn

has grown since August

as we peel-off long green

(high-dollar hay) vacuumed-up

by cows nursing hungry calves.

Al the prognosticators

tease us with promises

of thunderstorms tonight

if only to settle the dust.

Time for a shower,
a quarter, a tenth.

I have the next rain
at my fingertips—
                    the hunt and peck,
                    scroll of percentiles
                    dialed-in
                    hour by hour
of the good stuff I want—
that naked clay needs
to stay alive.

Nothing’s changed.
We all hang on a forecast—
                    cuss the messenger
                    who gets paid
                    when he’s wrong
                    or claims he’s right.
It is our nature
where a man’s word
is everything.