Old Man Storm
Thunder rumbles and bumbles
Like an old man angry at everything.
He’s been like this for hours.
Stomping around. Petulant.
Seeking out new gripes to announce.
So he can flash the lights to get our attention.
So he can clear his throat.
“Ahem…ahem. I don’t like this.
I said, ahemurumagrumahem,
I DO NOT LIKE THIS AT ALL!”
I hear you, old man in the storm.
You think I like the hot day and the muggy night?
You think I like the relentless inconsiderations?
You think I like the whine of aggravations?
You think I like *waves hands around*?
Rumble at me all you want, old man in the storm.
I hear you, but I ain’t the guy.
I wish you’d go rumble at someone else. Leave me be.
I just ain’t the guy
And I’m a little tired of you thinking I am.
I hate thunderstorms. Always have, even though I’ve told folks I like them. Storms are supposed to be romantic, aren’t they? Nah. Not to me.
We had a couple nights of thunderstorms last week and I had a lot of time to pace around in my smallish apartment while outside Old Man Storm ranted another round of “…AND ANOTHER THING!” at the world. I took a few minutes to write this poem, with no pressing intention to publish it. But it’s okay as poems go and maybe it works for you in ways I can’t envision. (Photo Credit: Me!)