POETRY
Weather Report
by Fred Coppersmith

He begs her not to go, but she does,
and when she's gone,
he goes out in the hallway,
climbs the stairs and finds the roof,
but he doesn't jump.
He just stands there and waits for the rain
he knows is coming;
he saw the news report at six —
a woman in galoshes,
yellow slicker, cartoon weather map behind her —
and he heard her say, be careful, seek shelter,
stay inside away from windows.
He tried to tell her that, before she left,
but all she said was, "We never talk.
I've got nothing left to say to you."
So he stands out on the rooftop,
and the pebbles near the edge find his feet,
and he anticipates the lightning,
the fall of heavy water on his face.