The Dust Bowl (thinking of now and the 1920′s)

Ever wish for a hurricane?
Sounds insane,
but drought is slowly burning.
and even the grass is gone.
The storm comes, the wind blows,
a few drops fall to tease me,
but before I can rejoice or take a shower,
the rain blows on and leaves me.
Oh, but the dust it comes,
from far away places,
and from what used to be my crops,
no water for my mops,
It covers everything:
It covers my eyes
kills even the flies,
and travels to whereever it goes
after it leaves me.
And so, where will I go?
I don't even know.
I live in a great dust bowl.
Under a sun that is searing my soul.