the weatherman
said a cold front
was on its way
yet today will be
in the nineties

poets are a lot
like meteorologists
neither really
knows for sure
what tomorrow
will actually bring
but we stand there
cocksure and stupid
knowing nearly every
word we speak is wrong

poetry and the weather
two of the most profound
systems based on sheer
conjecture and a need
to calculate chaos

always carry an umbrella
and if you see a poet
cross to the other side
of the street