I have no truck
with planning ahead, and thus
from a frosted upstairs window
watch my forlorn Mini Cooper disappear
beneath a white shroud
(and who knows
what the kid next door will charge
to dig it out)

a larger concern is the wind–
well, not the wind
exactly, even though the whisper-
shrieks get old after the first fifteen minutes–
it’s more the aftermath of wind
that’s the issue, the downed lines
that leave me powerless
to entertain myself
somehow

no matter how many shrill alerts
I receive across all media
in the leading up days,
my phone invariably remains uncharged
at the time of predicted calamity
and my backyard still lacks
the generator on my “must buy” list
since Sandy

I therefore sit in nature-
enforced silence, and my underbelly
cogitations, often rude,
frequently desolate,
all replete with should haves and if onlys,
rush to fill the void

I want to cram them
in off-brand garbage bags, thrice-used
moving boxes, those styrofoam coolers
that multiply in the basement
with each frozen food delivery
and any other large containers at hand,
and drive them (plus match)
to a landfill; single trip

but this, of course, is
an impossibility
because as you have likely discerned already,
I have no truck.

————

Colette Parris is a Caribbean-American attorney who returned to her literary roots during the pandemic. Her poetry and prose can be found in Michigan Quarterly Review, The Offing, Scoundrel Time, Cleaver, Unbroken, Vestal Review, and elsewhere. She lives in New York. Read more at coletteparris.com.