Poets Continue To Talk About the Weather

I sit down with poets almost every night
in the dim light and comfort of my den.
And I invite them all to come here equally,
though some come more frequently
than others.

I mark a place for them when they arrive
where they can sit
or if inclined,
recline
and speak their mind
or recite a bit.
I've had a time or two
with one or two,
about the weather.

"You know it's cold outside, " Bob Frost opines to me.
"The winter trees are bare
and there is snow along the wall.
But I am glad you called me here.
Hear me out,
because I fear
the world will end tonight.
In ice."

"All right!
All right!
Just hold on a bit.
It's just a storm.
That's it.
Let's use some reason,"
Wallace Stevens chimes.
"Let's not get hysterical.
I am, after all, an actuarial.
And chances are
the world won't end tonight,
although it might.
Anyhow,
who can think of the sun
costuming clouds, now?"

"You can't convince me," Robert Pinsky says.
"I can feel it in my bones, pal.
Fortunately,
I've got my wheels outside
and I'm going home.
I feel explicitly animal."

"I've checked the thermometer," Mary Oliver exclaims. "And it looks
like rain.
Let's not be so primitive,
the downpour I'm sure,
will be limited.

"We need the rain," Joyce Kilmer explains,
cleaning his gun.
"The trees need some."
It stuck some dumb
to see him there,
with his old uniform on.

"It appears I've stepped
into the liar's den
and everyone here
is sharpening their pause.
Don't be so maudlin," Richard Brautigan contends. "About the end of the
world,"
and shrugged his stooped shoulders
and whispered to me,
"Good God, I always thought
Joyce was a girl."

"We shouldn't stop,
simply because
the atmospheric conditions
have dropped," Elizabeth Bishop
shouts above the din.
"Look at the shape we're in.
It's not the end of the world,
as some might have you believe.
So please, continue.
Although I must admit,
it's a cold evening
down by the fish house.

"Do we have to argue about
the weather again?
It's terrible," James Merrill adds.
"The neighborhood remains,
sun-cured ,
though trembling still,
in pools of rain.
It gives me the creeps."

"The atmospheric elements
are irrelevant.
And though all your opinions
are very grand," says John Berryman.
"I don't know what you mean.
I think you're dreaming.
Couldn't we all just look
before we leap?"

I agree, but it's not up to me.
"Yes, " I say,
"Couldn't we discuss something
more important than the weather?"
"Like what?" the say in unison.
surprised that I
would dare interrupt.

I shut off the lights
and go to bed.
Downstairs,
it hasn't gotten any better.
Poets continue to talk
about the weather.