The sky’s an homage to planned obsolescence.
It’s rocking a case of feature creep, clouds
like drool blooms filling a pillow faster
than you can say: Careful or your face
might get stuck that way. This cloud leans in
like an unfinished limb activating a bus door.
This cloud’s a lab rat acing the swim test.
This rain’s a spread of plot points jonesing
for the line that fits best. The edge of the light
is like sweet, panic-thick hand soap. If this is
emergency, I’m digging the time-delay function.
Don’t mind if I stay here on the line while last
decade’s chart-toppers put me back in touch
with some crescendos I’d lost track of.
As for my own face, I’m just a little worried
about the aperture that lets amazement in.
Good thing I have an insider view of the weather.
Good thing I’m in a mood to appraise.
The day’s a round of Edward 40-Hands,
and I’ve fallen behind. Whenever I think
it might be time to cut out, get my jollies
another way, some new element checks in,
like an almost-not-mechanical voice: You’re
important. Please stay. Someone will be with you.
