Storm Warnings

By Bob Bradshaw
   
   
  I have sisters and brothers scattered
across small prairie towns.
They're my early warning system.
   
  They can see danger coming
as if it were a tornado
coming across a Kansas cornfield.
   
  My dog crawls under my bed
as news of her approach
is relayed. It's best
to lie low, like a storm door.
   
  Show foolish courage defying her
and I'll be like a negotiator
facing an oncoming tank.
   
  Mother is coming.

Bob tired of slipping out in stormy weather to leave notes in hollow trees. So he took up writing poetry. That was his first step down a long, criminal path. He cannot be rehabilitated. He is proud to say, though, that he has never committed a felony or a heinous act while writing. Perhaps poetry is not as dangerous as it's reputed to be.