Monday, April 16, 2012


Two hours of thunder,
Blue clouds and old wind,
No rain.

Five heartbeats of spattered
Wet and worse wind,
Then hail and hard, hard blown rain.

Where is my lightning?
Out in the yard, in the green,
Weedy grass, red dirt, and stones,

I collected lawn chairs,
Opened a metal gate, carried
A satchel of electronic gear

To the car for work next morning,
Just taunting, begging for a flicker
To give me that last lick.

Not yet. I can ache,
I can groan, I can lug my bones
Like barbells through the storm,

But nothing wants me,
Nothing comes to take me
Quickly. I am too slow

To die just yet.
I'll have to rot and crumble
And grumble a bit more,

Which I do, upstairs,
A crooked man who sits
In a crooked chair,

The batting coming out of the seat,
Ensconced in a crooked house,
By a drafty, crooked window,

Wishing, peeking through
A crooked curtain at skewed rain,
For, one day, the clean, quick end.

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