She tried to warn him
that the sky was falling.
They say the third time’s a charm,
but even after the fourth, fifth,
and sixth time,
he refused to listen.
Ten times became ten years,
then those slid into twenty more.
The atmosphere grew
cloudy with ruin.
It thickened and thrummed,
threatened to implode,
and she ran in circles,
waving her hands and shouting.
He claimed she cried wolf,
but really
she just cried.
He ignored her.
Together they swept things
under rugs in every room.
Now the house of straw
they bought years ago
for a cheap price
is so very clean,
but swaying and shaking
in the churning gusts;
sly foxes circle
the narrow property
while he stands firm,
stubborn as a mule.
When the first acorns hit,
she packs her bags.
As they begin to rain down
like a plague,
she heads for shelter,
but not without an
I told you so.