Art Gephyr

the storm

i drive, deliberately
missing my turn
perhaps some gas
a hidden alcove
an unknown park
anything, anywhere
but home.

the clouds speed past
temporarily blotting the moon
thickening, curdling,
then smothering the glow.

lightening silently flashes.

stores close early
streets empty
families tuck into their beds.
porch lights dot the neighborhood
like lighthouse beacons
against a current of leaves
and sloshing branches.

crickets impatiently chirp.

i wish the deluge would come,
flooding the streets
hauling away cars.
i imagine wind snapping the power lines,
lightening burning down the trees,
a tornado scalping
my home, releasing the odors
of old dog and stale cigarettes.

i park the car
and sit on the porch steps
charged with anticipation,
taunting grapefruit sized hail
to crush my scull.

nothing happens.

downtown the youth are dancing.
i wanted to be there
i could have already been there
and back
sweating, laughing,
scoffing at yet another
of the weatherman's
failed Armageddons.