by January 6, 2024 0 comments

The weatherman tells us snow
Is coming, but none of us believe him.
It is July. We have come into this bar
To outrun the heat, cool down
With a cold beer. Thunderstorms,
Perhaps. A clatter of unexpected hail.
A flurry of rain hitting so hard
The ground will not take it in:
It collects and rushes for the drains.
An hour later, the crowd is pretty much
The same. The local weather is back
On the television above the bar, given by
The same weatherman. The bar door opens.
Buck naked and beginning to drip,
In walks the snow. On the screen
The weatherman tips forward and smiles.
“See,” is all he says.

editors note:

Six months from now, we’ll be ready to believe this. (We welcome Ken to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

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