there are storms
that strike
terror and dash
and squalls
that piss rainbows
on the dockers
of dreamers
and there is a lightning
that races
to strike a blow
for the injustice
of ingratitude
for the Sun’s labor.
we picnic our plans
and summer
our worries
in the brassiere
of our dominance
upon the earth’s
giving
this we do
until convinced
of our throne
in the power
of lies subtle ante
but there is a storm,
a holy storm,
of up your ass
and break your
feckless pride
it comes high
then low
and lightning
owns the sky
in end to end
the clouds twist
and say
they might
while I cower
in chin out hide
I step out in the open
and say, therebut not too far
and she throws
an angry glance of
do you dare another?
I think of the barn,
and those holding flashlights
behind windows
of farce,
and think,
for them,
them only,
I’ll retreat.
but my fear was real
and my challenge
measured
as she lifted her skirt
and queened her eyes shut
to my withdrawal
letting her billows
bow the victory
and train her dominance.
It was a holy storm
and I the lamb
of peppered incense
but she had the high ground
so I’ll wait
for another day.
~rick
