March 9, 2018
Photo by Brittany Taylor

Riley, March 2018
A Poem by Jack Wesdorp

They’re sandbagging Commercial Street.
Fluttergut at the Stop and Shop,
non-perishables, some lunchmeat,
all hands on deck for stocking up.
Calm. Eerie silence. We’re waiting.
Then it starts, gathers force, grows hard,
it’s raining sideways, we’re afraid,
great organ chords ripped apart,
the house shakes, then the lights go out.
It’s all now. We’re marooned in bed,
it’s tonight, what we talk about
is heat, shelter, and getting fed,
really basic primitive stuff
that normally we don’t embrace
each other are you warm enough?
I know you’re there, I see your face.
We consider our future lives,
delve in the hidden depths of love,
what does it mean when fear arrives.
We keen the disappearance of
so many who are yet to be.
At dawn, under a blanket mound,
we confront our mortality
while immense maelstroms pelt and pound
our presence into submission.
Finally we come up for air.
Residual shudders, listen! —
the wind still mutters I’ll kill you.
The murk burns off. Vision returns.
Gravity works, discover slows,
the lovers laugh. We’re so there.

To submit a photo or a poem, email Assistant Library Director Brittany Taylor at