Last night after we made love Bill went outside to wait for the rain.
He stood on the flagstone patio,
hands in the pockets of his white terry robe,
watching the oncoming storm hover in the distance.
She was moving in her own time.
I opened the back door and leaned outside,
“A watched pot never boils.” I said.
But I knew, if watched long enough, it would boil.
Bill stood patient, planted, like a tree
whose roots are thirsty for wet.
“I felt a drop,” he said.
This morning the house is quiet,
except for the sounds of sleep and wind and rain.
Until I turn on the news–
pictures of splintered trees,
pictures of floating cars, flooded and stuck in muck,
pictures of sand bags and empty beaches and businesses shut down,
a flash of yellow earthmover slogging through mud
and inevitably dramatic coverage of a swift water rescue
from the quick rising LA River.
Later, I’ll dress for weather.
New winter boots
water resistant, lined with fur.
that matches nothing.
I’ll walk, head down, to the car,
open the trunk and dig for the umbrella.
It seemed like a good day to share this poem I wrote last year.
This was published in The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles in the June 2014 edition.