Biding the Storm

Storm warning just went from orange to red

(I mean the radar on my weather app),
but if I shovel, I just might drop stone-dead.

Then I’ll be the thing that the worms fed
on—that is, when the snow melts off all the crap
in the garden, when the sun is burning red

in spring. I’m told to shovel, but I’d best lie here instead
in my dishabille and take a nap,
because if I shovel I just might drop stone-dead.

And I’m a little stiff, so I’m taking ibupred,
or I just might drive to the Y and swim a lap,
with the storm warning changing from orange to red

and snow drifting visibly beyond my window ledge.
And on the door I hear the storm’s tap-tap,
almost like a rap on the door of the dead.

Well, my live body is lying here in bed,
awakened by a blizzard thunder-clap.
The storm warning just went from orange to red,
but if I shoveled, I’d probably drop dead.