Serpas. "Dirty Side of the Storm."

Death just misses you, its well-defined

eye and taut rotation land on

someone else. No need to study the sky

for signs or watch the cows�

not with satellite loops, infrared

imagery, recognizance flights shrinking

the orange cones of uncertainty.

If it makes you feel better, go ahead

and push pins through a brittle chart.

Your coordinates square neatly east

of the worst wind shear, lightning

strikes, and bursts of air.

All convection steers clear

of your splattered doorframe.

The Red Cross mobilizes elsewhere.

Take a good look at those oak roots

from a calm doorstep and wait.

The sadness is a surge carrying

all its debris back to you, a flood

that shoves clods of ants and snakes

through your walls and then

sits in your house for days and days.

This is the dirty side of the storm.

Would Death had blown straight through you.