Strange Weather

You used to like your job painting the eyes on dolls. Now, on most workdays, you
wake before the alarm to find a stranger prowling about the room, blindly touching
your things, and the wind talking gibberish.

The sun, big feet, big hands, dirt under the nails, is selling key rings and other
trinkets in the street. But why go on? Whatever the time of year, dead leaves
always seem to be falling.

It’s too hot for curiosity. The heat tortures us night and day. Broken and crumbly, a
corpse floats over warehouses and docks and empty, upturned faces. The
destination is inscribed in a florid script I can only barely read.

Straight in front of me but wrapped in clouds, you step naked and small from the
clawfoot tub. Ancient voices of children sing outlawed songs. With what may be a
smile, a terrible rain begins.

About the Author: Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the 2011 poetry collection Dreaming in Red from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to a charity, which you can read about here: Dreaming in Red.