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
learn vigorous, squall lines
essential for bombastic rhetoric
and vocal techniques
for effective, long-lasting, rumbilious thunder.
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?