Crooked like a cat

in the elbow of the sycamore,

the streetlight hisses at leaves

strafed by rain.

 

Lightning grabs the sky,

slams it on the rooftop and pins it,

growling.

 

As the spark hooks the house

party children spill into the night,

squealing against the wet,

 

Stamping puddles like Zeus in Pampers.

They’ve no fear that missile is for them.

They dare it, faces turned to the sky.

 

 

[Other Poetry, Series III no. 2, 2008]

 

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