is in a warehouse

down by the Red Cedar River,

a hangar with adiabatic racks

for stratifying stratus,

separating cirrus, stretching them out,

icing them down,

back stage steam machines

for accumulating cumulus,

mending the worn ones,

stuffing and fluffing,

puffing them up, bleaching them out.

There's lightning practice center stage

and sound-proofed practice rooms

where cumulonimbus

learn vigorous, squall lines

essential for bombastic rhetoric

and vocal techniques

for effective, long-lasting, rumbilious thunder.

Personal weather

is de rigueur for poets this year.

I dragged my cloud down to the shop this morning,

paid the extra hundred for priority service,

but it won't be done 'til Monday—

something about resilvering the lining.

That's why I'm wearing last year's

sunbeams, hemlines a bit uneven;

do you think anyone will notice?