Tornado warning,
effective immediately
The alert comes in,
pinging on phone,
buzzing with haptics
on my wrist,
pushing a notification
on my laptop.
Thunder rumbles,
encroaching,
menacing:
Do not ignore me.
The PowerPoint file
open on my monitor,
so riddled, injected
with comment bubbles
that were the edit asks
tranquilizer darts,
their sheer numbers
could down a tyrannosaurus.
But raindrops pelt overhead,
creating metallic zaps,
amplified by zinc roof,
conspiring to pull me
from Decklandia.
My attention wavers,
Allowing my nose to wander.
I smell a sweetness to the air;
the hot steam of a rice cooker.
Is that basmati? I wonder.
Back to the deck,
I must press on.
I stare at forecasts
and proposed agentic fixes
while the text wobbles,
warning of over-reviewitis.
The rich perfume
of roasting spiced meat
– is that kebabs he's cooking? –
climbs the stairwell,
pours through my open office door.
Eyes tethered to the screen,
I will myself to find focus,
and the energy to persevere.
Another growl of thunder;
my desk lamp flickers.
The power might go.
And then what?
I could race time,
Toe to toe
against a tornado,
keep my heart rate
in the orange
while I fine-tune
this deliverable.
Or I could give in.
Who am I to fight the wind?
To ignore the sensory
beckoning of a family dinner,
candle-lit,
in case the power goes?
Better close out this file, I reason.
Don’t want to lose my place
in this one life of mine.
