Why Me, Alexa?

Alexa warned me this morning.

“Mild rain turning to downpour

and scattered storms,” she observed

in her electronic monotone,

a drone that belied urgency

to an impending emergency:

the raging tempest that now

engulfs me.

An unrelenting volley from the skies

hammers my every step and soaks

through my coat, my clothing layers,

past my underwear, and drenches

me down to the bones and my soul.

Is this the price of ignoring Alexa?

Is she to blame for the hopelessness that

swamps me?

You call this storm “scattered,” Alexa?

This wall of water I’m in is constant,

seemingly never-ending, and evil.

OK, Alexa, how about a deal?

I vow with all my zeal to give you

my full attention if you will make

this storm run out of rain before it

drowns me.