Hot Mess

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.