He sits out on the porch step
in a thunderstorm hoping
to be struck. He can't grasp
the plain of his existence
on the ground.

He chases twisters for a living,
lately he's been decommissioned
from his post and longs
to pour his little heart out.
The rain does not.

His parents they don't fathom
why he won't don summer shorts
and smile at the beach
like a good boy does.

And the sand grates
in his teeth metres away,
clogs the gears-
something rotten,
he's picking with parasols
outta there.

Maybe he'll make a tornado today
and finally grin
in the chaos..

© DanGlyn