People are out on a humid Friday evening
walking their dogs, buying tickets to the new
Superman movie, or just going in for a bucket
of their favorite buttered popcorn, which they'll
take across the street to eat on the west-facing
steps of the middle school. We lick the last of
the gelato off our fingers as rain starts to fall.
Lightning stirs inside thick-bellied clouds, then
it's like some god or a beast is clearing its throat
before uttering an important edict. Is the medium
as important as the message? Is it the same message
each time, or just the form that changes? Sometimes
I don't know what I want to say until I say it; if you
knew, though, wouldn't the meaning be clear?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
