Old Weather (1/2019)

The poor boy stands there, it’s six o’clock
as he looks up at the ceiling.
‘Oh, mother, where are you?
I feel you out there somewhere…
I’ve got an idea, I’ll build a rocket.
Yeah. I’ll make this work, believe me.
Like I ripped a mountain like an old newspaper.
Don’t know why they didn’t buy it.’

Countdown. Primed. ‘It’s more than it seems.’
Green light shined, he started to leave.
‘Why would they ever believe me?’

‘What do they say about evolution?
See me then and feel me now.
Now, I know nothing. How profound.
Out with the stars and watching revolutions.’

He halted a storm with a fleck of light,
but why would they believe him?
‘Oh, weather, weather, will you sing?
I hear you down there, somewhere.
I’ve got an idea, come view the future.
Someone please believe me.
Like I left a prison like a playground ball,
don’t know how they didn’t find me.’’

‘Built a beach here with two specks of sand,
but why would they believe me?’
I saw the ocean in his hand
and I never stopped to believe him.