The satellite of his face
forecasts the deluge to come;
compressed turmoil under clouds
of common decency, a wish to be gentle.
Hazy hopes circle the room
like lost meteors caught in a tempest swell –
They ricochet off the oak dresser,
bedpost and pillows – missing your head
by that much – off course, but doomed
for impact nonetheless.
You’ve gotten used to predicting storms,
battening down the hatches.
Whether in this region
or points further north,
there is always the threat
of sudden off-shore squalls
in the kitchen, hurricanes
down the hall, blizzards
in the bedroom. Caught
between
the freezing rain
of his rebuff
and intermittent shafts of sunlight.