Give me rain
lightning seems to be saying.
And a rogue cloud
(like a woman I know),
sensing some celestial command,
starts to resist
what appears so exclamatory.
And if a cloud could speak
I imagine it saying, Crybaby, Crybaby,
wishing in advance to shame
the darker clouds
and hold off the predicted deluge.
Everything is still now,
as if the universe has been
successfully chided,
as if one man’s imagination
could alter the likely.
The day fades
then fades some more.
It appears dusk will have its day
and lightning will tire
of its poor percentage of success.
What’s to be done
with shadowy men like me?
How to say to a certain woman,
Give me everything you have
and want her to hear
the smile in it, the furtive plea?