After Irene, August 2011                 Photo credit: Alan Walowitz

Next time we’ll try and do what’s right: 
tie the lawn chair to the deck,
stow in the shed what’s apt to fly,
listen close to those who know by heart
what breaks in times like these 
and what might keep.

This is no age that holds bad news at bay: 
the big storm brewing in the night, 
and written all day in the skies.
The umbrella we forgot outside 
gets called to duty in the reckless wind—
all we can do is hunker down and wait.

We find out middle of the night 
more of what we might have known— 
a tree comes down with whoosh and crack—
the circus sound of whip in air,
not the earth-shaking thud 
we’d dreamed and feared.

We stumble out at dawn to gasp and behold 
this streetscape we wished we’d memorized—
now downed trees, smashed cars, life’s debris,
chainsaws gearing up to go.  All subject to change 
at the whim of winds—what we thought we had 
was never ours to keep.

We’d practiced the tent on the lawn,
but not in these conditions.
We were stubborn and young, 
--old enough to know better, someone old would say--
and by the time we got the tent to steady,
the pegs deep enough in the sandy loam,
we could feel Doria drumming down the beaches
from Delaware, Jersey, then the Island.
and all we could imagine was, a gift.

We stayed up all night for the weather 
but were too far to hear, 
the sound coming in and out 
like some trombone recorded live
from The Royal Roost, in the dark ages.
But this was where we wanted to be, 
determined to make it the night, 
even see a little sun come morning in its struggle to rise 
over the next dune, and what it might mean
if we could find a reason to stay in love.

No sleep. Then, the wind downed a tree 
around 3 in the near distance, 
which sounded like a shot 
and slow dying from a Western we’d once seen.
She looked at me and said she wanted to go,
as if this was something so apparent, so true,
even I must know.
I wanted to stay in the tent. 
She’d settle for a cheap motel down Route 6
away from the shore. 
I said we’d be safe in the car.
She simmered. I steeped. 
The truth was, we could never bring much to a boil.  

Instead, we drove a mile, then another, 
then too many to turn back,  
she in a pique and I a cocoon,
protected from the elements inside and out. 
Finally, no use, she pretended to sleep, a mercy,
and I sang a song to myself
about the joys of traveling all night in a storm alone.
Got home in time to see first light over Queens, 
a gentler place--or, at least, one we knew well. 
I’m certain we didn’t say goodnight. 
Why should we?  We’d marry soon, 
and be happy, just as we had planned.