I’ll be carrying butter and cornflakes
home from the NISA, usually, or, say
scanning my desk for a bill with my address,
when it hits.
The spray soaks my hair
I find my sea legs. Grab a mast and climb
to the crow’s nest, hold on with one hand,
catch the storm with the other arm, giving
as good as I get to the thunder, everyone
on deck matchsticks.
It ends quicker
and quicker these days, but I am
deft with the pincers and the model
I am working on is almost finished.