Atmospheric River - David Oates

[Lawrence Robinson]

Atmospheric River


Sitting on the banks of an atmospheric river
feels less like Otis Redding and more like Valkyries,
yo-to-ho and away with that roof,
that bridge. Time to stay indoors

to catch the drips and mop the basement,
checking the phoned in forecast showing
tiny rainclouds every damn hour
for the next week. Or two. Buckets o’ fun 

for none: no oldsters out on walks,
no driveway b-ball. Gutters running full
of gutter humor, dead cats, condoms, leaves, 
spilled trash, some doggy’s tennis ball.

Here in the upper left corner we expect drizzle,
not firehose nozzle. We’re meant to scandanavianize
the winter with sweaters and nuzzles and cuppa joe,
not watching the neighbor’s shingles up and go.

Oh, I’ve known rivers. Ours are deep and slow
where a quiet kayaker might slide and wave,
with mystic forests nodding on each side and
maybe hikers meditating time’s broad flow.

But rivers in the air? Can pork in the treetops
be far behind? Everything is upside down, with 
inmates tearing up the asylum in DC too. Time 
is out of joint and my parka’s soaked through,

my face wet with either fears or tears
or just the savage randomness of climate
driven to distraction, to destruction, to rue,
to run, to rain, and not to yield.

	- David Oates
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