Wet night of the cloudburst
When the floods and the traffic
Clog the roads—
Waving his glowing batons
Muffled in raincoat—
Sodden like a seed—
Why did we argue?
Why did you hurl that unkind word on me?
Why did I respond the way I did?
I will be home at eight to a warm supper
Of steaming rice and tapioca and pickle
And you, three hours hence—
In all probability—
To pickle and tapioca and steaming rice.
We both need a hot bath before the meal
Back from the wet and the cold...
I can imagine,
You stretching aching legs under the table,
As the old dame
Ladles rice on to your plate.
A funny expression you have on your face,
Mustachios combed down!
Shhhhh… she tells you,
In a hush
Swinging out of reach—
Don’t you wake them up!