Interlude

Rain falling like it’s a street performer,
tapping a syncopated line, one
flashy burst and lots of flair, like two
people at a subway stop, duetting with empty hats. Three
big raindrops eyedropper onto the windshield, four
more make a tiny river, direction downstream. Two
rainbows today, like God was promising twice,
but there’s rain forecasted for the next three
days. I don’t know what we’re waiting for.

Three boats sail past, like water-borne gulls, winging
to the safety of earthbound harbor. Against the window, the rain is spitting up,
three-month old baby, colicky, displeased.
Four days ago, we sensed the storm,
foreboding, like a blister about to pop, it was
too quiet. They say that good things come in
threes, but has the flood come to water or to drown?
Four days from now, this may be what we waited for.

Measuring the rainwater, counting
inches, like we’re counting liquid hope,
like we can hold it in our hands. One
to four inches, the weatherman says, with a black-suited shrug,
his pencil taps a rhythmic measure, waiting,
like us, for something sky-big to wash it all clean.