Leaving the restaurant
I was late, as usual,
and called and had you order for me
Too fatigued to think, anything would be fine.
But I forgot to say except the soup.
Their soup is winter soup
-- cheesy January snow, fireplace comforting soup --
too out of place in July.
So, I ate the soup
and felt like I should be wearing
skiboots and a cableknit sweater
as I walked into the humid evening air,
still smelling of day and the city,
nighttime hours away,
a trick of the clock to hold back the fleeting day.
Behind me, the sun sets despite us
--like clockwork, you might say--
the eastern sky looks like snow.
Summer displaced by low grey clouds,
heavy soup and cold dashboard air.
Confusion continues for a few miles
as I try to reconcile
the shining sun to the dark sky,
the horizon falling like a grey curtain
just beyond the next interchange.
I smell the storm before I see it,
as the vents fill with the mix
of dirt and oil and rain,
making my nostrils flare like a horse
and my pores open with the change in temperature,
wind cooling across my skin.
Now on the other side of the median,
pavement is wet, but not a drop is falling.
Now it is here, slowly at first beading the windshield,
now covering in sheets, now pounding,
obliterating painted lines and taillights.
And then the sound, growing louder,
an approaching cavalry, volleying pellets of ice
Ground and pavement and sky merge
into an uncharted sea,
in a blizzard of spring rain.
There must be a rainbow,
obscured by the Peterbilt
that is defining the next lane
behind the cover of water.
The furious wet frenzy continues
until I exit into the foggy pea soup
marsh near home, and I am back
to hot, humid cook-on-the-grill summer.