Poem #103 of 365

The sirens croon as I steer towards
home, and the waters wash at the
curbs, the cement walkways. It is
as if my ears are stopped up with
fluid, I am so swollen with adrenalin
and the cars around me seem as
slow and aimless as meadow
cows. I spot a black patch in
the sky, and its bottom is
obscured by buildings to
the south. I'm sure it is the tail
of a tornado I cannot see and
towards which I am unwittingly
driving.

The rain is pelting the car, and
soon it may become hail, and
the news talk stations deny me
certainty, and the words are
cutting out. I bypass all my
plans and pitstops, cross everything
off my list to do. It only matters
that I get home, I only want to
park and breathe.

In the final mile, I feel homefree
yet a sluggish suv holds me hostage
on the road. The sky drops everything
and the car is pummeled and my
hand jerks to honk and honk. In a
panic, I yell and cuss, almost climb
a curb and scramble past. Finally,
the suv rolls away and I swim the
Buick to its block. I only want the
one thing, to stop and be safe.
To run to the house, to clutch
my cat.

At the driveway, I arrest my fear
and don't even grab my bags.
I flee to the doorway, and my
brother's hand reaches from
the porch, not to pull but to
welcome. As if to signal that
he knows my worry, feels
the storm of edge in my mind.
We rush indoors, sweaty with
rain, and throw all volumes
up to high.

We clamor for precision,
factual news, and the tv,
radio, and stereo all quell
our anxious need to know.
It is funny how we walk, in
this house during a storm,
feeling so bodily close, yet
so alone in fear. We want
to hear a voice speak with
assurance, tell us what to do.

As the winds die down, and
the roses settle on the bushes,
the volume knobs adjust and
everything gets subtle, and
the pelts reduce to drips, and
the sky opens up to blue,
and now we feel silly, sweaty,
nerve-wrack weary, but also,
finally safe.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez