Storm Story

Storm Story
Christopher Bogart

Winds howl around the wooden walls,
Rattling the fragile Quonset hut.
Gusts, like ghouls and goblins,
Swirl around the ground,
Slamming at windows,
Ripping at roofs,
Their slender fingers peeling the shingles,
And tossing them,
Haphazardly,
Around the ground below.

Row upon row of huts,
Lie deserted
In random ruin.

We
Alone
Amidst rows and rows
That made our neighborhood,
Alone among the marshes of Jamaica Bay,
As water rises,
Wind howls in pain, and

I

Tremble
In my tiny wooden seat,
The pegboard,
With its multicolored wooden pegs,
Scatter in the darkness
Around my feet,
Too afraid
To disturb
The delicate equilibrium
Of wind, rain and
Anger
Swirling around us,
Trying to get in.