whipping winds threatening
to wrench the microphone from their hands,
TV reporters stand on the shore,
backdroppped by rolling waves of Irene’s fury,
repeating the same frantic phrases, lamenting
the fate of coastal cities and towns.
over and over, hour upon hour, day after day,
the same video loops crashing waves and
boarded windows as Irene and the “news” roll on.
local meteorologists try but fail to keep excitement
from their eyes as they do their thing at the map, thrilled
to take center stage with something important to say.
and then it passes, and Irene becomes less,
no longer newsworthy as she leaves New York behind.
the guy at the map talks of sunshine and fair winds,
no longer excited but, boy, what a ride.
recaps include video, but we saw it two days ago. "still,
she was one for the books," he murmurs with pride.
meanwhile, up at the top of the country, Irene
has the last word, but except for the locals,
there’s no one who hears. Like old toys and
broken furniture out of sight up in the rafters,
they are trapped there, isolated and forgotten,
as things in the attic frequently are.