The word “Hurricane” is replaced by “Typhoon,”
a lost distinction, as she’s five
years old. Cat-like, her eyes on the tub
water running, she wonders who wanted
a bath, since it’s going to rain.
Morning brings matchsticks
filling the window, reveals a hut
reverted to lumber while sleep hid the storm.
This, she understands – vertical lines
smashed flat, a crayon scrawl that resembles her own.
K Roberts is a professional non-fiction writer who also publishes poetry and art.