Weather Report
by B. H. Fairchild
We will have a continuation of today tomorrow
Clouds will form these ragged gloves
in which the hands of God make giant fists
as He grits His teeth against the slaves
of time. And the sun and moon will never rest.
from the boring grind of dark and light:
subway tokens glittering on the ground,
dogs in their habits, the hours soon or late,
nuns and assassins in their daily round.
The divorcée coming from the laundromat
knows the cycle of laundry and despair:
back then the towels they shared, but now a basket
filled with someone else’s underwear.
Eichmann lies in bed and reads a novel;
a Holocaust survivor sets himself on fire.
The thief’s in church, the priest is in the brothel;
the sky is clear, the weatherman’s a liar.
God shakes His fists eternally to say,
we’re having more of yesterday today.
