There will be a 90% chance of rain
and the tropical storm warning is in effect
for the coastal areas and
my eyelids are trying to recall the drunken
lucid dream I had
where the storms were swarming after
the tail
of my bicycle.
I had to ride like grapes were under the pedals
crushing juice between my toes –
soft and almost guilty –
thrusting to the Secret Cabin not afar.
Did Katrina blow down all your fences
and make me think it was one of your
greeting hugs?
Did Irene wash off the mud stains on the rocky path
and mislead me to believe that you
were clean?
Did Sandy make your world spin in circles
and misconstrue that it was my intoxication?
Funny how I loved you the most
when you were staring at her
but all I could ever do was duct-taping
your windows,
refilling holes in the walls,
building pipes to drain off the wine that
she spilled
all over the roof of your mouth
until rain dripped down every second
and made beats with the bottom of the ice cold bucket –
I probably would still adore you
with a glass of Chateau 1855 in my hand
while I took a sip of the bitter liquid
that was fermented from something so
sweet.
Before I could almost understand why
hurricanes were named after people,
I would call this hiding place after you;
the haven that's out of work;
the shelter I once felt safe to live in;
the home that I thought I had fixed;
the worst thing someone could ever be.