Tonight's Poet Corner: Being The Weatherman

Being The Weatherman
by Belinda Roddie

I just hate it when
the rain gets in my nose
and inside my sinuses
grows a pity party
where all my exes drink
and sing along to sad
music while I try
to sleep.

Same with when
the sun gets caught
in my hair, and every
stranger on the bus
stares as I try to claw
the gift of gold from
my angry follicles.
Take it, Midas - I don't
fucking want it.

And now, with the winds
roaring, I know that if
I step outside, the gusts
will incorrectly assume
that I'm ready to fly,
and I'm not interested
in hurtling two hundred
miles through the air just to
land in a heap on your
doorstep, while you won't
give an iota of a care.