A silver vine with dark green leaves
Wraps around the rural railway station
Not two and a half miles from here (post
A little hurricane), and your mother believes
My motive in helping with fall housecleaning
Is to find where you hid the Johnny Walker Black,
And she’s as right as all this rain.

Everyone gets weak-kneed when the floor
Trembles like an orchid in front
Of a big electric fan, and maybe your ancient
Windows pop their lozenge slots
And glass lands unbroken on carpet
‘Thick as flaxseed bread, but I’m skeptical,
Sweet stuff, skeptical, and likely born to doubt it. 

William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree grad of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Laurel Review, The Oyez Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.