Photo by Morgan Petroski on Unsplash

Dearest Ann,

It’s late October, and to say things are unsound this year is an understatement. I don’t have the exact numbers on hand right now, but I shouldn’t be too far off in saying we are in the neighborhood of 87 named hurricanes this year.

Having gone through the standard list of names, we have now exhausted the Greek alphabet in short order. Don’t ask me why no one has pushed legislation to add new names, but I am mocked in the halls of Congress for the suggestion. It pains me that it would merely make too much sense, and therefore, is to be avoided at all costs.

That being the case, the powers that be have moved on to the Sanskrit alphabet in naming storms. The one presently off the Yucatan Peninsula and bearing in my direction is known officially as Hurricane लुलित.

Of course, this has caused much confusion in this beleaguered region, and the printing presses burn the midnight oil in its mockery. However, there is some lightheartedness to be found. The townsfolk have come to refer to the storm as Hurricane Yeet, and it is trending thusly on the telegraph.

My wish is to convey to you the solace I have found in humor during these tremulous times, preferring to view our current hardships in the light of an ethereal comedy. I believe it to be the only thing that has preserved my sanity since, as Poet Laureate, I found myself relegated to the backwaters of New…