Angst the Color of Thunderstorms

I’ve lingered too long over texts
that fail to instruct but inflict
angst the color of thunderstorms.

My doctor could prescribe a pill
that would chemically resolve me
but would also dull my senses

and leave me flopping like a trout.
The day dawns with moist overtones
after a summer of drought and dust.

Sandstorms in Arizona eroded
friends who had retired there far
from hurricanes and tidal surge.

A derecho staggered an old friend
in Colorado, where the Rockies
nod in tremendous skullcaps.

I stay home and expect an abrupt
rebirth to swoop from the clouds
and rip the books from my hands.

It would scatter the gloom so thinly
no one will suffer it again.
The color but not the music

of thunder shades me as I sit
in the last of September heat.
The day tallows into amorphous

and inorganic matter some
opportunist sculptor could shape
into a hearty and cheering grin.