1. On the bus
The sky blackens with wintry haste,
though the wind pants with August heat.
Bright flashes in West unnerve me --
The teeth of a lightning’s fork are not
the ends of a rainbow; they touch down
2. In the street
Two blocks before my stop, the rain comes,
not falling but charging, striking its tiny fists.
A man flashes me a sympathetic smile
as I pull the cord and step out into the storm.
My flimsy umbrella bucks in the wind
like a bull, and when the thunder cracks above,
I drop it in terror and run.
3. In the cab
A kind man calls me a cab
and lets me wait for it inside his store.
The cabbie puts on news radio and even between
traffic and weather together on the ones,
all they talk about is the rain, funnel clouds
over the downtown core, reports of
tornadoes in Vaughan.
Tornadoes. Like sharks and dinosaurs,
they are to me both phobia and fixation.
I keep my eyes on the yellowing clouds,
searching, hoping, dreading, singing to myself:
The house began to pitch,
The kitchen took a slitch…