When I'm going, I place my needle
in a channel that pulses vibrations
toward Beethoven. All in with provisions
akin to camping in the backyard in the rain,
my thunder too raucous for pockets or under
hats which I long for when searching for the word
“thunder” - I mean this! Kaboom. The fright
reprieve seconds after the flash hurrying
toward a door: will it cease before sleep?
I lied when I told the nurse it only rains here
after mid-November, except for mountain storms
à la Aspen or Santa Fe, with the glorious cleansing
of trees, railings, and roads. The morning
is clean now as the mind is after a tiff, traffic
lights out as always. Our world is summer
wrapping paper, our colors soak out
and we laugh, arms out like wet scarecrows
unable to smell new rain on dry roads,
languid with the stupor of inoculations
and grief and for young friends who do not
yet know their way, as rain washes even the sweat away.
Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on IG: @larrybridges