The warm garden-hose water smacks
of vinyl and barely cuts my thirst.
On my cupped drinking hand I can smell
the lemony velvet of August tomato vines.
I think it's been summer forever.
A pair of grasshoppers launch themselves buzzing
through the
air, thirsty for the gathering
thunderstorm. The rain will stifle this Texas
heat
for a minute or two, then turn and curse
us all with a tidal wave
of humidity.
Flashed concussions release the gush of rain
that ends in the drip-dripping pause of stillness;
my slowing heartbeat relives the show. Black
clouds blow on past and pull the heavy air
back over us, the sun now hotter than before-
My eyes and ears rest while streets full of guttered
torrents drain away, but
not their smell.
That flinty wet concrete air wafts up rising
like the smoke of burnt gunpowder draped above
a lovers' quarrel gone terribly wrong.
Thunder and lightning? They just don't pay off
the way you'd think. It's sweat, not rain, darkening
the salty stains on your hat. That pair loves
to mark
you with a wet streak down your shirt
and then bet you'll be back for more.
Fans? They don't do much but stir this
hot mess
around.
