Storm Poem

We are the tenth floor
financial survivors
This morning, our white
highrise ashens
beneath a chocolate
layer cake for a sky

Isaac says some things
Just through the office door,
"The sky is falling"
His face is grave
Noting the brightness here
terminating in the black
swirl just out there,
he thinks of a lit movie set

Wagering that the storm
will fail to kill them,
and probably right,
our coworkers are out of sight,
telephone ringers rise from behind
the landscape of cubicles
like MIDI bird song
thanking the floodlight