rolled through the valley this afternoon
but God saved the thunder and lightning
like the final bite
of a dish that's been craved.
The magic was doled out
in increments today.
Her lack of glasses
mistook the afternoon moon
for a cloud, though I only corrected her
for the sake of hearing her laughter
as she hopped over expansion joints
to preserve her mother's spine.
I'm grateful that the contractor
renovating next door
has yet to affix a gutter system
since the water dripping
from the two-story roof
across from my apartment
falls to a wider drum skin
of asphalt and street dust
enhancing its effect
between blasts of thunder.
My mother used to tell me
that it was the sound
of angels bowling.
I believed that for longer
than the myth of Santa Claus
or perfection in a person.
Its melt value was less
than its sum as a tale
like the ring that I gave
the wrong person as a kid.
Earlier this evening
between the two storms
swallows circled my building
for the first time since I've lived here.
Six speeding years
without that sailor's sign
and they pick my favorite day
in many to arrive.
The best muse, like the best news
and a peaceful late-May thunderstorm
is always unexpected.
With nowhere to go tomorrow
it's not too late to crack a white.
I light a smoke, but don't perch
the box fan in the kitchen windowsill
to exhaust its trail as usual.
The sound would drown the symphony
whose worth outweighs the lingering smell.
I open a second window
to absorb enough of the weather for two
hoping that she hears it
from the basement where she lives.
Car sounds abound
as the clouds roll over the mountains
and head for a waiting Connecticut
as I too sit with patience
for what's been overdue.