Narrative Poem: The Bomb Cyclone.

 

My Dear Children;

Well, the infamous 'Bomb Cyclone' has come and gone.

It left cows stranded on top of stoplights and flushed out the sewers until they now smell like bougainvillea. 

The electricity has been out for nearly a week. So it's lucky we have our food storage and a large supply of candles. After trying to eat our food storage items, we have switched to eating our candles. They taste much better.

During the storm an old woman in a rocking chair floated by our patio, where we were sheltering several dozen kangaroo rats and a parcel of peahens. She spoke to us as she passed by, these shining words of wisdom:

"Always clean your shoes. Never talk to someone without teeth. Eat your spinach with nutmeg and white vinegar. Wear a hat after dark. Always support the bottom. Feed your children before they wake up. And never use a monkey wrench when a screwdriver will do!"

I was sorry to see her sucked down a storm drain.

The rain was bad. But the wind was worse. It grew so boisterous that several nearby trees packed up their bags and went home to mother. A leaf was propelled with such force that it went through a cement wall and a bowling ball. The big green dumpster down the alleyway from our apartment was blown inside the Post Office. Where it was accidentally mailed to the White House by overzealous postal employees.

I must say that even though the bomb cyclone was brutal and unrelenting, the USPS came through with flying colors. We got our junk mail every day, come rain or shine or a plague of locusts. And the milkman never stopped coming by with our butter, cream, and stock market quotations. I can't say the same for the Fuller Brush Man or the Mary Kay Lady -- they totally abandoned us to our fates, and we haven't seen hide nor hair of them since just before the storm struck. When they tried to sell us life insurance guaranteed through the 7-11 convenience store Corporation. Your mother and I only bought a few million dollars worth of coverage. Now if something happens to either one of us, the other one can collect a tidy sum. And I'm sure there's no connection, but your mother wants to order a pound of ground glass from Amazon Prime today . . . 

I had to stop writing this email for a moment so I could nod off and dream about shoe laces. That's very symbolic, you know. Shoe laces represent repressed feelings for woolen fabrics. But now I'm wide awake again; your mother tiptoed in and kissed me on the top of my head.

Of course potable water is always a problem after a big storm. Luckily, I discovered an artisan spring next to our patio. We not only got water from it, but were able to buy some original pottery pieces.

I have much more to tell you, but I think I'll wait until this evening to write again. By then, if we're all lucky, I'll have forgotten what it was.

Love,

Heinie Manush.