Hail the Size of Golf Balls
Sept 7 2008


I write at the dining room table,
candlesticks, placemats
in a mess of paper.
The chairs are tucked-in,
obedient
but uninhabited —
no clinking glasses,
no vivacious laughter.
Outside, it’s dull and wet
and the chandelier seems far too festive;
but essential, nevertheless.

Gentle rain lulls me.
I look out at a world in soft-focus,
all misty greens, and liquid.
An in-between season at an empty table
— too damp for words to stick;
no witty repartee
to prick me.

I’d rather have lightning and thunder,
and hail the size of golf balls,
and wind-whipped trees
drenched and cowering.
And then a sudden black-out —
an excuse to go outside,
where the air is electric
and everything feels alive.