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Poem

September dripped hot winds
through the screen door.
The floor sticky from the
slap, slap, of bare feet on tile
parading back and forth
to the fridge for ice.
The dog hides in shadows,
side plastered to the cool 
sticky tile, tongue limp
and touching the floor.
I expect him to rise slowly
and be startled as his tongue
stays behind, glued to the tile,
but it doesn't happen.
We all move slowly, in sweat stained 
tee shirts and shorts.
No place is comfortable to sit.
The dog was right in his choice.
Would he growl if I walked over
and pushed him from his
spot and took his place, 
my tongue hanging to the tile?
Tonight the smell of eminent
rain slides through the screen.
I'm looking forward to it.
Make it a rain so hard the
puddles form in minutes, 
with big drops that plunk
down on the street, lawn, cars
and beat the tile roof to shards.
A rain that more than settles
the dust, greens the lawn,
one that chokes the manhole
as it tries to gulp all it can
only to spew it upward and
out for the traffic to by-pass.
I want a rain that will drench
the heart, cool the skin,
and irrigate the mind,
washing the crust of soot
that clogs my thoughts
and makes the heat hurt 
my brain.
I want a rain that will
clear the soul as it digs
grooves across the lawn.
A rain with a beat so loud that
trains whistle to let it pass.
And on the morning after,
clear blue skies
with a puff of white cloud
and a smell of fresh
laundered earth,
glistening until the sun's heat
dry it, and we begin again.

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