I opened the windows wide to let the squall,

the hurricane in waiting, rage through the house with

typical October Winds fashion, the bluster of a false

premised argument, the storm that fells trees

but cannot whip the coat from a cold woman

as she digs in deep with fingernails more lustful

than when she lingers in bed in lingerie long drawn

over her body.

 

The squall rages, it fires like a coughing dragon,

not with splutter, but with the wet hose

that feeds a Tsunami and the curtains rattle