Day 2, poem 2.
If You Have Nothing Good to Say,
talk about the weather -- relay the forecast,
recite the current temps, remark precipitation,
offer advice for outerwear or
the lack thereof, discuss how it all makes you
feel, wonder where the groundhog's hiding,
theorize who's responsible for the current climate, and
lament the frustrating inability to be certain of
anything anymore, what with coasts sinking,
ice caps melting, expensive houses going up
in smoke, cheap ones whirled into kindling and/or
the next county, mention the islands of people
swept out to sea this week, or simply pitched
downriver, cite the latest city blocks swallowed
by massive cracks in the earth's crust --
or, better yet, stick to cataloguing
the birds ... geese picking at brown grass, flocks
of robins on the lawn,
ducks paddling backyard puddles,
the usual murders of nesting crows, and, if you're
really lucky, a couple few wild turkey
calmly stalking the middle school sidewalk,
heads high, ignoring the frantic rush of
four lanes of workbound traffic.
