EVENING IN DALLAS
There are only so many things one can say
to another person over a can of beer
under a buzzing florescent light
at the kitchen table with the dinner dishes cleared
but not yet washed.
There are only so many mundane,
peevish things one can say
before you have to go outside in the dark
and sit on rusty aluminum chairs
that tilt on the cracked dirt lawn.
You have to sit silently, the two of you,
through that last half hour of Texas
heat and static electricity,
your throats catching on the dryness.
Then, a long, yellow-blue bolt
tumbles down to the north horizon,
outshining for a moment the dull glow of Plano.
Thunder rolls harshly, as if the city were a vast puzzle piece
shoved hard side to side and finally falls
in its place. The lightning storm has begun.
You can now say things like,
"I hope to go see the new baby by the end of the summer,"
or "I dreamed this morning that my blue truck ran again,"
or "I always like it when you comb your hair that way."
And the air will begin to move
and it will even be a little cool.
And the cottonwood tree will shake
and sound like rain.
