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 as the oncoming storm hovered 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 it is quiet in the house,
except for the sweet sounds of sleep and rain and wind.
The grass looks greener, contrast against the heavy sky.
There will be much talk about the rain on Facebook and Twitter.
If I turn on the television previews for Storm Watch 2014
will run over and again. Pictures will flash on the screen.
Pictures of rain in front of streetlights, pictures of thick white waves,
pictures of downed trees, wet cars, flooding businesses,
maybe a mudslide.
Inevitably, there will be dramatic coverage
of a swift water rescue – at least two times every rainy season
someone is trapped in the quick rising LA River.
Later, I’ll get dressed for weather.
I’ll put on my new winter boots. They are water resistant,
lined with fur. I bought them for a January trip to New Jersey.
I’ll put on my ultramarine raincoat, the one with the hood—
Bill teases me, he says it matches nothing.
I bought it one July on a whim because it was on sale
at Nordstrom’s. I’ll walk, head down, to the car,
open the trunk and dig for the umbrella.