Hurricane Jaded
Katrina was bad.
Swished around New Orleans like a gold prospector
panning for gleaming nuggets.
Only unearthed something real ugly.
Instead of ugliness, now,
we’d prefer to be faced with the banal.
Hurricane fever, you might call it.
Suddenly!
battered-looking reporters
gushing first impressions, concern heavy in their voices,
are starting to seem a lot like heroes.
Which hurricane will be next?
How will the government respond?
Fearsome questions tendered slowly,
deliberately,
with severe head-nodding.
How insensitive of me
to wish the rainfall patter of after-work chopsticks
would drown out the doomsday conference
of laughably solemn journalists.