She sent me a message while I was walking Mr. Reilly,
She said “Look up, and tell me what you see.”
I thought I would impress her with my poetical ways so I answered,
Bus zooming by…
Brown leaves on the sidewalk ahead,
And a shadowy figure that Reilly and I will soon pass,
The smell of the Indian bakery warming my insides on an autumn evening.
“I love fresh bread,” she said, “What do you hear?”
Crisp slate grey sky,
And the wind gently shaking loose more tan and brown leaves,
And cars sliding by,
Each with its unique sound of tires on asphalt,
Creating its own steady hush.
She then messaged, “You’re very good at this,
I’m going to read that again!”
but I went on…
A few drops of cool rain,
The rain here, even when it’s pouring,
Seems to be made of a lighter liquid.
It’s not the hard thick drops of a West Texas down pour,
And it’s almost disappointing when
I don’t have the residual layer of dirt on my windshield after the rain,
They say there is thunder in the springtime,
But I suspect they don’t know what real thunder is,
Here in California.
In the West Texas springtime,
When entire sky is filled with all the mountains,
That are missing from the landscape,
You can feel the power and,
The threatening posture of the storm,
But you take up the challenge and face the lightning,
And it fills you with excitement,
And if you have a lover,
It is during these storms that your fantasies come true.
Silver flashes across your lover’s skin,
Passion filled faces caught in the strobe of lightning,
And the pounding rain beating on the windows.
The mix of cold wet air,
And the sweaty heat of deep kisses and breath.
They don’t know what they’re missing here,
But I do,
And maybe someday I’ll have her.
Michael F. Lewis