rubbing your neck
distractedly in the parking lot,
considering the shape of
weather to come:
the tree line enshrouded,
the tiger of caught-electricity—
a summer storm held by its tail—
behind a curtain of dirty rain.
you wait for its movement,
its hunting ground wet and reaching
for your concrete, your asphalt,
reaching out to scratch vision
from every eye frame, every memory
of its fog preset with no sunrise.
you wait to be sodden, overcome,
the space between becomes that of a tiger’s claws,
and you, patiently, wait for its every stinging cut.