Why are you over there, you massive white beast?
In the North, near the moon instead of Southeast.
The fear takes me over, as I fall to the ground,
and my eyes start to water as my trousers are browned.
I’m confused my great cumulo-friend, at how this can be.
You’re not meant to be there, though you may disagree.
I tighten my belt as I hop to my feet.
And I shout to the skies “White Light! White Heat!”
Then my temperature steadies and I paw my own eyes.
I pack up my rucksack and say my goodbyes.
For my affair with you is over and I must return home,
To my job as a chemist who makes polyurethane foam.
© Mark John Peacock 2009