Waiting Room Poem #11. Weather report

Another one from the waiting room…

My predilection for inclement weather,
I think, must be a form of self-punishment—
a private attempt at redemption
for things I cannot change.

I am always surprised
when my intuition is correct,
and wonder why it fails me
the rest of the time.

Is my position
on the border of the situation
a present reality, 
or somewhere I think I should be?

The sun comes out;
for an instant there is hope.
But clouds are always
floating in from somewhere.

I haven’t owned an umbrella for years.

(31 January 2018)


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