a spanish plume is threatened, says the man
who does the weather. flights of huge arrows
hang poised over the ocean, aimed at hull.
very rare these spanish plumes, rare as a
celine dion song that doesn’t scare dogs
and so I wait, watching for the shadows
of the arrows to pass over my house.
outside I see the faces uplifted
oddly patient, like justin bieber fans
waiting for him to grow up and get a
proper haircut. the sky remains empty.
there is a sense of hope melting away.
celine will never sing that one good song.
no great arrows. justin will never change.