Egg-sized but not shaped
hail knocks a fright against the brick
façade. Almost a century standing,
the building won’t fall down
in this maelstrom. The cat yowls
and races across the small-spanned
apartment (rectangle not railroad) before tornado
sirens begin to howl. He knows.
Windows open or closed, ricochet bent or pressure
cooked, twister real or exaggerated—this shelter for survival
may not withstand submission’s ache.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 
Wonderful. Brilliant how you transform your life into poetry for all of us to experience. There is something so satisfying about this poem. Yes.
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I just can’t resist. See, I’m writing directly to you, my dear.
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Well, that pleases me immensely. Am I a muse, yet? Ha!
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Absolutely!
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