Weather Poem by Morgan Michaels

Overnight: a light fall of snow.
Sitting on the couch
looking through the open blinds
the way the whitish wiggles
clung riskily but stubbornly to the thin
branches of the sleeping trees
made his ankles chilly;

Sounding like a duo
between a dishwasher and a garbage disposal
sung over the the chorus of a garage door opening
he sang (both parts)
covering the singers on a CD
which only rarely skipped.

Behind the sink she munched an apple out loud
stirred her cup with a deafening clink
immune-even oblivious
to his vocals. The
problem was obvious.

'I have read, ' she said
'that rubbing the CD with a banana
fills the pits so it no longer skips-'
and waited to hear how he might reply.

'It sounds like something we might try, '
he said, after a bit,
'but not right now.'

'But not right now, ' she echoed,
in relative agreement,

'but not right now.'