Thunderstorms

I.

The doctor sighed.

The lobby was filled

again.

The sick,

the weak,

the elderly

all waiting for the verdict;

their coughs

and anxious breaths,

rolling into a collective rumble.

 

A click,

a scrape,

is all it takes

to release a man

from his steel prison.

He joins his inmates

marching,

a single wave

in a sea of orange.

It’s lunchtime.

Their steps echo

in unison,

shaking the walls.

 

III.

It’s the home

of things

dirty and stained.

The dishwasher—

black as night,

rests below the sink,

throwing waves

on porcelain

and plastic alike.

Its guttural roar

ripples through the

house.

The foundation vibrates.

 

IV.

White hot spotlights

burn bright

above

a burly man

on stage.

Microphone in hand,

his sharp,

venomous words,

drenched in

satire

roll off

his chapped lips,

earning laughter—

the deep belly kind—

from a sold out audience.

 

V.

Summertime.

A great steel elephant

sputters down

the cracked pavement

of Grant Street.

Men jump

from the back

to the ground,

dumping bags of trash

inside.

Crunch.

A gravelly moan

barrels down

the street,

shattering noise

for five whole seconds.

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  1. Pingback: Tis the Season for Baseball |

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