The Squall

Andrew Wyeth's The Squall, 1986

I think of Holly Petraeus and wonder if she--if anyone--expects
a squall: one that rocks the boat or one that exits the throat,
and I doubt it. We try not to worry about what might never happen:
to think on whatsoever things are true and honest, pure and lovely.
No one wants to carry binoculars and a raincoat, just in case,
so we're caught unprepared by those things that bend and break us.

The man I love leans against our hutch and asks why I'm crying.
I shake my head and talk about Holly: about 38 years, 2 children,
and, still, no guarantees. "I'm not a general," he offers quietly,
but he misses the point, because it's less about being a general
than about being general: human, common, usual, sinful.
I've hung my coat (hat, hopes) on this man alone. I study him,

think: don't bring down (or out) a squall. Make things safe for me.