Storm
With a flash, a crack, you threaten my
life.
I defy your hunger, sit on the side
porch swinging
on this metal glider—a parched August
afternoon.
You gush in, wipe sweat beads from my
forehead,
blow around my ankles, pull wet hair
from my shoulders,
open my shirt with your breath.
I drop my head back, inhale your
promises, listen
as your rain pelts every oak and maple
tree that lines
the street to my house. Ever near to me
you draw,
then blow on by like some lover’s
afterthought.
Patty Cole
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