February Poem

Guess who threw the thing with the pail water
in it with the pail, flinging it? Guess who.
For approximately all day long a low humming
of the disaster that is news, not weather,
a blunt instrument used like a wing to propel
into flight. What matter schedules, if only
to lift above earth for a spell? Relief in there,
in that lifting. So I'm just going.