Oh gosh, Poetry when I am anxious

I met a boy, a cat, a madly-bad love song.

Just as the weather began to boil in the East,

a lightening storm fluttered before it.

She saw a clean house; he saw none of it.

She saw a clean street; he mad a run for it.

She saw a mess; He had found the fun in it.

She saw an actress and witnessed the summit.

A rolling, boiling, roiling mesh of cloud and wind;

the mountains gave way; the fog tumbled in.

A pod and eyes fifty-something deep played

obnoxiously on self-exposed-repeat.

And the boy found the weather and the weather

found the boy. His dissipation as reliable as

the cat remains coy.

The boy made it as humid as he would have; the cat napped, ate, and played; the songs filled memory; the world turned; and I met myself in humiliation and then turned along, too.