The folly of flowers left on a sidewalk.
The petals are crumpled, the hosts of ants
capriciously meandering on their edges
and then climbing over to the apple wedges.
The picnic nearby is in full procession.
A grill is fired up, the ashes of meat
consumed by the flames release
billows of despairing smoke that mar those clouds,
transparently blue. Is that where angels live?
Would they care to swoop down and take a bite
out of a burger so hot
it would scorch their lips?
Don't stare into the sky child.
The cloud sees your eyes
It is no angel.
It can only punish you with thunder
Squeeze that hot burger patty between your hands
until they take on the color of ashes
Do you see the muddy earth absorbing
those droplets of water
The prophesy of rain has been made
The clouds you are grasping
with your eager plaintive eyes
have turned gray
The trickle is growing thicker
and turning into a stream
The hot coal in the grill is hissing
Glass-like beads of water
are bouncing around
Rain is absolution.
Holy water that washes
grimy oily hamburger hands
Open your palms
Step out of your socks and sneakers
Feel the flooded asphalt under your feet
throwing off the shackles of the sun's
that have fried it to the core
Are the yellowish-blue strips of lightning
any less wondrous or exciting
than those wicked rockets of the night
shot into the wary sleeping sky
to paint dissipating patterns of light
NOTE: If you are curious about this poem, I recommend that you listen to my recording of it. I do apologize that the recording has some background noise in the form of my breath being overamplified in some places. I also managed to leave out the word "eager" from the reading by accident.