I.

The weekend meteorologist
casts blue and white flicker-shadows
on the ceiling.
Even if you don't know it's Saturday
because you don't have a calendar
or maybe Tyme just got away from you
or maybe you locked yourself in your room with the blinds down because the whole
world sucks and you feel like Shit
you know it really is the weekend
by the weather guy. He wears cheaper suits than the Real meteorologist,
the five-night-a-week guy who forecasts and points at six and eleven.
They only let this moron do one report a night.
There's a chance, he tells me, a fifty percent chance
that we'll get some precipitation tomorrow. Well, bucko, that ain't good enough.

I don't want a chance…I want a Promise.

II.

Promise me rain
in the morning when my eyes open though I'm mentally welding them shut.
Promise me rain
and let the Sky cry for me because I'm sick to death of having to do it myself.
Promise me thunder; promise me lightening
and let the Sky roar,
let the Sky rage in my stead because I ran out of good swears two days ago.
Promise me a rainbow
when the storm is over. Okay?
Promise me a rainbow,
an omen, so I can know it's safe to come out.


© P. Gomes 2002