|
THE WEATHER GIRL
by tj sullivan © 1999 all rights reserved
It’s morning
The beginning
And I’m stretching out the dreams I dreamt the night before
Wanting them to last beyond the early fog
That gives way to a glorious, grade school blue
When I hear the voice of The Weather Girl,
I Believe The Weather Girl
I Believe
Lumped on the couch with a blanket and
A cup of coffee
Smiling still in the toasty haze between
The sheets and the shower
I hear her voice
I hear it above the cars on the boulevard as they jiggle and whine
Rattling to work with the bump and hum of boom-box bass
The threat of too much treble
Too early in the day,
I hear the voice of The Weather Girl talking to me
Above my neighbors walking on heels upstairs
They are so pressed by morning urgency
The daily thump and zoom
Screaming for the keys and
The need to speed so they can get on the
One-oh-One
Or the
Four-oh-Five
Only to oh, oh, open the windows and wait
No matter where they are in Los Angeles
They’re always just 20 minutes from a traffic jam
Bumper locked in the Corrolla crawl for hours
So compacted in those compacts
With the mother-loving heat of a morning sun on their angry faces
No matter where you are in L.A.
You’re always just 20 minutes from
A traffic jam
I wonder
If the compacted people heard The Weather Girl the way I do
If they heard her
Would they love the crawl, too?
I Believe The Weather Girl
I Believe The Weather Girl
With my eyes wide, smooth music on the radio
I savor the palm tree shade
Pleasantly passive in the partition between
Rivers of steel and the tin din of
Geo Metros and Chevy pick-ups
I remember the whispers of The Weather Girl
Reminding me that it’s the start of another day
“Good morning,” she says
Her words flowing into me like warm tea
With large plops of honey and
Healthy pours of whole milk
“It will be sunny again today,”
She says,
“Sunny and warm with
Mild winds and
High visibility”
She can improve a mood
The way the moon influences the tide
Just by moving closer
I Believe The Weather Girl
It’s morning
And I am nourished by the words of The Weather Girl
Sunny and delicious
I pluck them whole from the airwaves
Fuel for the sweet day dreams that
Drift
In my car window as I cruise free of the packed
And up into the brown hills north of Los Angeles
She coos in the static and hiss
Above the interference of sagebrush hills
The gray distractions of the day
“Good morning”
She says
Two words as soothing as a summer midday sprinkle
I can hear her in the fuzz
And I swear she’s saying
“Call me”
Her voice is in the breeze
So soft
But I can hear it
Above the crying baby in the Beemer
Above the bad muffler on the Hog
I Believe The Weather Girl
She’s talking
To me
And spring has never felt so personal
So perfect in the morning
As I stretch dreams from the night before
“Good morning”
She says
“Good morning”
I Believe The Weather Girl
I Believe.
|
|
|
|
