Thereshould be, in every house,
Aroom in which to hide.
Aplace of safety all can reach
'Tilstorms of life subside.
Thestorm may own a cyclone's roar,
Thatthreatens to destroy,
Orstrong emotions breaking out
Withtears she may employ.
Fewhomes are built with panic rooms,
Thoughmany come to be,
Whenwise men choose a sheltered place,
Intime of storm, to flee.
Mayhapthe storm is long in brew,
Withdark clouds building high,
Orone may feel a lightning bolt
Fallfrom a clear blue sky.
Somepeople run to funnel clouds,
Theysay to learn their cause.
Butfor the normal thinking man,
Suchdanger would give pause.
Thescience of predicting storms
Refinewith each advance,
ButMother Nature still controls
Therhythm of the dance.
Justso, the lady in control
Ofher relationship,
Willinfluence the atmosphere
Whenhis foot starts to slip.
Whennewly wed, and for a while,
Theman thinks he's in charge,
Obliviousto darkened skies,
Andstorm clouds looming large.
Ifhe survives to see the sun,
Tohim it won't seem queer,
He'slearned to love his "panic room"
Andsimply say " Yes Dear!"
RichardHigley © June 26, 2015
