A Beautiful Hurricane in the Sky

On Wednesday, I’m there watching the

washing machine spin those blue clothes

in slow circles, sitting across the table

from a man who’s feeling awfully wounded

and only looks beyond me.

It’s so funny how fast I can heal from

all those ugly fights, watch it rear it’s head,

then keep moving.

I think I get that from my mother sometimes,

a woman so forward she never got to see

what was in front of her all along —

a beautiful hurricane in the sky.

Or maybe I learned it on my own

listening to the bristling leaves that one

evening I spent in London,

the birds crooning overhead —

not hearing the person right in front me

say he’s feeling so sick and tired

and then say nothing at all.

I felt sorry for the man walking away,

and wondered when that machine would finally stop.