_57. Waiting for the Hurricane

My mother brought in
the deck furniture
I put the beach chairs
in the garage.
Above us the sky was still just haze
and some sunshine,
you would never know.
But 2pm tomorrow,
the television promised,
swore up and down the Eastern
seaboard, the truth was coming.
I considered the grill,
appearing suddenly exposed
in the midst
of the back patio.
A storm 400 miles across,
who cares if the Weber
is behind some drywall
or not?
My mother tugged at the
Adirondack chairs, lined
the way her face has shown
some wrinkles;
not their first storm.
“Leave ‘em” I said,
“they’ve seen worse.”
She straightened
and looked windward,
past the horizon
staring it down
to gauge the weight of an enemy.
“And the grill too,”
she said,
“I’ve learned
what you can save.”