The storm veered north and missed me.
On TV an insurance man
goes among twisted joists,
discerning wind damage from flood damage.

I read an article on over-mothering,
how it leads to long, gray days.
Better to permit cartoon violence.

The election is over.
The right people have won.

To avoid mass misery, Pascal says,
one must learn to sit alone in a room.

A poem comes to me,
but the words aren’t in the right order.
No children are mentioned.

On my three-lap jog around the block
I find a nest blown from a tree.
Inside a tiny bird skeleton,
barely discernible,
same color as the grass.