The Walk Home

I hear the drops before I feel them.
Rhythmic s t a c c a t o dancing as they hit the metal roof next door.
Then they're on
me,
adding to my already stormy day.
No umbrella.
I p e e r into the
dark clouds swirling.
Can I make it home, to safety?
Just five blocks over,
but to my waterlogged shoes
it might as well be five miles.
J a g g e d lines paint the sky
an incandescent white
as my world erupts in deafening booms
p o u n d i n g in my head,
sharp cracks
announcing how close the heart of the storm is.

Destruction and m a y h e m to follow.

I shiver with the wind,
even though it is a warm summer storm.
It's more than that.

It's the i n e v i t a b l e

beating down my door to trap me
here,
where I don't want to be,
lost in the n e v e r e n d i n g cycle of rain, hail, wind
until I am completely soaked
and beaten,

just one more victim of an
i n d i f f e r e n t world

with storms strong enough to follow me home
and knock out the power.
I can't beat it; there will be no win.
Can't avoid it; I must walk through the path of d e v a s t a t i o n
if I want to reach safety,
bedraggled,
bruised,
broken.
What a price to pay
for a respite from the storm that
e n v e l o p s me in its darkness and
brings me to my knees.

It's going to be a long walk home.