Your Account Sir Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A clap of thunder, oh so timely
reminds me of those problems unresolved
though shaking I was not
inside my muddy boots.
Damn right I am still standing,
and will remain so for the time
it takes to execute the next,
perhaps a devastating one,
this strike of lightning, which appears
to be the maestro of the orchestra.
Who then, I ask, might be the players,
will I be spared by joining from afar?
I multiply that figure by the seconds
and when thunder comes it may be late
too late to gain immunity from all.
The only question still remaining
is the one I will not even ask,
if I am struck what will it be for me,
and in the end, who might be watching.