Michael Catherwood

Hours March and the predictions said snow, heaps of white daggers descending from the sky. I ignored the news casts, the slobbering weather anchors delighting in their snobbish knowledge. Of course the snow began as rain, then sleet. I thought about a good bowl of chili, a chilled Sapphire and tonic. I sat at the restaurant and refused the usual talk about the weather. "I'm from Nebraska," I told them. "A little spit. A tiny dark cloud. It would all be over," I said. Well, we all know what happened, for the most part. But the turn is not in the restaurant or in the gin. The turn is in the stranded nature of things. How life beats itself back into collateral amusement, the short left hook, the stubbed toe, the sudden thunder of a blown tire. No. A large woman drove me across town, snow gusting and cracking against my better judgment. And this poem is about judgment.

Copyright © 1999 Michael Catherwood All Rights Reserved

Michael Catherwood holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas, where he taught for four years. He has published in various magazines, including Agni, Aethlon, Black Warrior Review, Borderlands, CQ, Georgetown Review, Graffiti Rag, Hawai'I Review, Kansas Quarterly, Kimera, Laurel Review, Mangrove, Mankato Review, Midwest Quarterly, Nebraska English Journal, Nebraska Review, Pittsburgh Quarterly and others. Michael writes essays for Plainsongs and has work forthcoming in Blue Violin, Briar Cliff Review, Main Street Rag, Pennsylvania English, and Pittsburgh Quarterly. He has worked as a truck driver, weed whacker, garbage man, teacher, tutor, substitute teacher, and administrator. Michael currently teaches at Metro Community College in Omaha.