The village clenches its fists,
preparing for a tropical storm.
Artists who’d planned to display

art this weekend curse the sky,
which curses them in return.
Pale figures gloom at the river.

We’d like to join them, but lack
the status, the money, the angst.
We can’t identify by name

the portals and exits installed
in the park. The town workers
won’t say who ordered this maze,

but it has snapped shut forever.
The clenched fists threaten no one,
not even wind already boasting

of a day of naked conquest.
You believe we should stay home
with our mouthpieces uninstalled.

You think the gnarling old trees
will ignore our supine intellects
while displacing the last gray birds.

We should hide out in the diner
where eggs suffer terrible fates
and ham still squeals in memory.

I know you distrust the customers
with their sweaty beards dangling.
But think how distant the storm

will seem behind plexiglass,
how angry its currents, how raw
its lavished rain. If we stay home,

the last tree to fall will fall on us
with the sleekest choreography
scrawled on a lone scrap of cloud.

Author Bio:

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023).  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.