She wears a badge that says
'There is a storm coming'
and as soon as she pinned it through her top
trees shed their leaves,
isobars turned into question marks
and the whole of the East coast disintegratesd
like a shrug of the shoulders.
Men sandbag their doorsteps,
furniture turns into firewood.
There are screams from the top of the hill
that the wind catches,
delivers through our letterbox
and she fingers her badge,
mouths the words 'There is a storm coming'
and meteorologists check their satellites,
scratch their heads.