Storm huffs & puffs. Storm blows the blocks down.
Storm dissolves the crackers, downs the jam, drinks the juice.

It ruins the storybook with its rain. It does not share the toy train.
Storm dumps finger paints, leaves markers without caps, toys tossed out of crates.

Storm chases & shoves. Storm roars & raves. Storm booms & bangs.
The children, these twelve tots with their sticky fingers & nonstop tongues,

they are not afraid. They grab Storm’s clouds & squeeze them like stuffies.
They leap for lightning bolts. They dance in the downpour. They open their mouths

& fill their stomachs with rain. Storm thinks they’re insane. Out the window,
down the street, Storm leaves in search of somewhere it’ll be feared & esteemed

it hovers in a dive bar, orders a shot, signs up for karaoke, ready to sing
“Rock You Like a Hurricane.” Storm flips its mane.