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the other day at the hair salon, i carefully picked hairdressers and their dogs 


they talked about the hurricane

much like they talk about doordashing lunch

and coworkers they hate.


her hair, artificial-ficial blonde, 

as she stood over her client. 


“you know, it’s not going to even be that bad.” 

confidence is key. 

“it’s not going to even flood anyone’s house, it’ll just be a few tree limbs.” 

and she was right. 


but what part of me sits, bare forehead damp,

enjoying a head massage

my lady asks me if the water is too hot

and i tell her no

but it’s kind of crazy that i can make a choice


is the only way to measure disaster by making it ours?

when a house floods

when a people dies it is the fault of storm.


when a tree has its limbs

torn from its body,

its bones, blood, and matter 

limbs, sap, and bark

just to bounce against your window and end up miles from where it’s body stands

and you dare complain.


do those chairs knocked over 

inconvenience you? 

does that flash flood

make it harder to get home? 


imagine a gust so strong

your fingers rip from your hands

distal, middle, and proximal

only to be packed away in bags made of you with a lowe's label 

and discarded. 

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