by
Janet Shell Anderson
Old women like wrinkled velociraptors probe surprising streets to shop for baby clothes. I am
caught up. High Plains Spring is hesitant outside the big box stores, Super Target, Kohls.
Nebraska fifty-two mile per hour winds slash just and unjust alike while thuggish skies lower
over the south side of Lincoln, monster trucks appear from nowhere.
I do divorce.
A filthy man whose sign says he will work for food shouts something. Appropriate thunder
cracks.
I am an attorney.
I miss my ex. Maria, haloed in the slanting stormlight, walks transcendent across miles of
asphalt, past lines of parked SUVs, surveillance cameras out of reach.
The wind dies. I smell tornado weather.
The green spring peepers in the pond near Walmart sing their thin frog songs each to each.
I do not think that they will sing for me.