Summer Storm

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.

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