Weather Report

On channel five with my hand outstretched
In the manner of changing the channel
With the channel changer.

Couch springs sagging under the combined weight
Of me, the bag of chips and the hole in the air
Where she should be beside me.

And like a black hole, that space absorbs
The room's light into its vacancy, and the television screen
Flickers just slightly.

My thumb poised expertly on the volume button
Adjusting the volume of the program
With the volume button.

The weather man stands in front of the world
Or at least the part of the world
That I occupy now.

It's a small piece of world, and it's even smaller
Without her beside me to expand
The boundaries of my soul.

I pause with a potato chip raised
Halfway to my mouth, in the manner
Of eating a potato chip.

And the weather man points and tells me
My decreasing world is ridden with
A thick fog blanketing its surface.

And the weather man says tomorrow
My little world will be hit by a torrent
Of inevitable rain.

And the weather man indicates on his
Ever-shifting blue screen
The thunderclouds that will reign on Sunday.

And the weather man states calmly
That on Monday there will follow
A clouded twenty four hours of grey.

And finally my tiny darkened piece of world
Will, according to the weather man, undergoe
A chilling wind from up North.

I sit here on my couch, watching the weather report
From the vantage point in my cluttered dusty world
And hope.

As I eat my potato chips from my
Permanent seat in the greyness of dawn
I wait patiently for Wedsday's forecast.

And I hope that the next time I see my little world thrown upon that
Glowing, shifting screen, that the weather man will allow me a brief spell
Of sunlight.

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