Much pressure builds
in un-forecasted acts,
stormy things like howling
winds & chubby fingers,
big red buttons that’ll
sweep you up, blow you down.
Twenty-four hour coverage
of tiny white flakes, of a giant
snowball rolling downhill, gaining
mass but never lasting
long enough to form the
base of a man. When the bomb cyclone
drops o’er new englands or
old wests, that shriek of cold bluster
wakes babes in the night either way.
–
t.j. peters is a humorist and screenwriter living in Southern California. His work has been published in Rattle, Those People, Westwind, and others. More of his poetry, short prose, essays, and screenplays can be found on his website.
