chronicles of a rain storm

20160802_172948
I

fat hail-filled drops of desert cleansing rain
tearing mesquite seed pods from branches
and onto the grass

i sit
in a red toddler chair by the window

watching neighbors pull sandbags from
the trunk of a gray sedan
and waiting for her to drive down the bi-rivered
street as i think up the worst /

               in the ways i might not
               see her again

II

water rises to past the wood plated
bench out front

naked palms swim placidly and in place
though a rain-sogged lawn;

i wonder about flood insurance
               and if it is even a thing when you live
               in the desert,

cursing my poor timing

III

she calls to tell me she’s still
beached / stuck in a parking lot

watching water carve its way
down a four lane street

powerless against the wrath of a summer
lightning storm with a

three year old (ears covered against
the sound of thunder and rain)
in the back seat

i can do nothing because she
is the stronger of us both

IV

i can hear the clouds begin to clear, not
the clouds themselves, but there is
a sound,
               distinct if you know it,

at the end of a rain storm
that sounds like worms
breaking through wet dirt looking
for a dry place to sit for a while

like grackles perched on water-logged
mesquites, looking for tired worms

it’s the sound of a car pulling into
the driveway, with concrete already
drying in the heat

and i know that later there’ll be no
evidence of the rain or sounds or

of the grown man who sat,
pensive and alone, in a red toddler chair;

               only mesquite seeds in the yard
               drying slowly in the desert sun

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