“but those clouds are menacing weird.”
We lose west a couple seconds,
and our internal clocks spin wild
as though we’ve driven since midnight
instead of since noon, and the sound
of breakers becomes Atlantic—
and we’ve gone back several decades.
“Like a storm’s coming in.” She checks
the rearview, the speedometer.
“Maybe it’s apocalyptic,”
said absently as infrared.
“Maybe those clouds,” she extends rock-
and-roll fingers, “are the heralds
of The STORM of ARMAGEDDON!”
We drive a while, pass a schoolyard.
“Probably just the regular kind.”