I ask the barista engineering the production of my chai
whether rain increases or decreases the flow of customers.
It alternates, she says. When it’s cold, rain amps things up.
When it’s warm, it’s already slow; with rain it fizzles out.
The coffee shop is crackling today—energy contained
within the walls, unwilling to leave the insulated space,
afraid of the potential shock. Will that be cash or charge?
***
Yesterday’s prompt from Poetic Asides was to write a weather poem.
Your touch, your kiss, your glance
is electric. Shock me again.
Sockfeet shuffling on carpet.
Electrical outlet, electrical cord.
Benjamin Franklin flying a kite.
Electrical storm, huddled in bed ignoring
blue flashes that pierce my eyelids.
Electric hairdryer and curling iron.
The things we do to be beautiful.
What is beautiful? And why?
Why is beautiful?
Why is beautiful.
Electric fences to keep us in,
to keep them out. When the power’s out,
escalators are staircases, elevators, still boxes.
Electricity travels from your skin to mine.
I see it. I see your mind
churning ideas, churning out thoughts.
Lightning blazes, thunder explodes.
Thor throws his hammer that cannot miss.
Sif sits at his side, wondering
if all this is really necessary.
Couldn’t a gentle rain do the same thing?
But she has never been a mortal
coupled with another mortal
waiting out the gods’ wrath
and holding on for dear life.
***
We are having a lovely thunderstorm, so this poem seemed appropriate.
Karin S. Wiberg 