(Lightning over Scottsdale, Arizona; by Richard T Cole)
Mike who lives upstairs plays bass.
Amps come thumping through his floor.
He drives an El Camino, black
with loud red mufflers. He has gigs
most weekend nights. I hear him haul
his gear thump-thump downstairs. He
seems to play most everything,
and practice sessions will include
new stuff but without fail he soars
his way through Telstar, then segues
into warbling wails of "Why doncha
love me like ya used to do?"
Last year when we had not had rain
for sixteen weeks, one afternoon
a cloud slipped by our cursed state
for having been the ones to loose
George Dubya on the world, and
without a how-de-do the skies
unrent and poured down sheets
even while the sun still shone.
I heard his door fling open and
the slap of feet down wooden stairs,
then saw him in the parking lot
standing with his arms held up,
stringy hair already drenched,
his bald spot pink from joy.
© Maggie Jochild, written 15 August 2012, 9:50 pm