First Spring Storm, Part 1
Celtic knotted cumuli corral one thousand acres of sky into a blue, house-shaped pentagon
Directly overhead as if sent by God to alert the world to your location in a quiet evening neighborhood.
Tilt your head back in the middle of the street and marvel like an idiot at its expanse and perfectly delineated boundaries as the residents watch the strange, middle-aged man in flannel and baseball cap,
Hiking boots and blue jeans, accidentally summoning suspicion and pity like a clumsy conjurer.
Gusts tear around you, flapping shirt tails like an invisible miniature maelstrom made manifest
By grimy, weathered cigarette butts, deteriorating maple leaves spattered with vein-revealing disintegration like Matthew’s AC/DC t-shirt when he screwed up with the jumper cables
In the school parking lot, detonating his battery in an acid atomizing pop heard in the lunchroom.
Think you’re old King Lear, raging at the storm? Get out of the street: no one knows Shakespeare.
Copyright 2014 by Robert R. Mitchell
Directly overhead as if sent by God to alert the world to your location in a quiet evening neighborhood.
Tilt your head back in the middle of the street and marvel like an idiot at its expanse and perfectly delineated boundaries as the residents watch the strange, middle-aged man in flannel and baseball cap,
Hiking boots and blue jeans, accidentally summoning suspicion and pity like a clumsy conjurer.
Gusts tear around you, flapping shirt tails like an invisible miniature maelstrom made manifest
By grimy, weathered cigarette butts, deteriorating maple leaves spattered with vein-revealing disintegration like Matthew’s AC/DC t-shirt when he screwed up with the jumper cables
In the school parking lot, detonating his battery in an acid atomizing pop heard in the lunchroom.
Think you’re old King Lear, raging at the storm? Get out of the street: no one knows Shakespeare.
Copyright 2014 by Robert R. Mitchell
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