'The wind will gust to a hundred miles per hour tonight
and the eye will pass throught the city. . .'
Then the radio stopped.
My mother told me the streetlights were dead.
I curled up in her lap by the window
and watched branches blown like neon wisps through the rain
my three years hoping that the storm wouldn’t stop.

My father is irritated by the wind and rain
to him they are merely hindrances to the work and drinking that are important.

But that night he put on his coat
and I watched him dodge branches
Looking for the hurricane's eye.

Poetry of themusic

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