cleaverchris

He lounges on a New York bench,
a worn hat covering his eyes.
But he’s not sleeping.
His foot is tapping to a beat I can’t hear.

Slowly at first.

Then the rhythm picks up
and both feet are tapping,
tapping like the drip-drop patter patter
of rain splashing down.

It’s more intense now
as his hands slap his knees—a downpour.

Then I see what he really is.

He is a tornado powerfully twisting and leaping,
sucking up the gazes of passers-by.

He is lightning lightly dancing,
burning intricate poses into my eyes.

He is thunder. His passionate cries reverberate
through the crowd that has gathered.

I want to shout and dance and leap with him,
but instead I toss a couple dollars in his hat
that he’s placed at his now motionless feet.

Gathering clouds are glowering at me from above,
and I decide it’s time to head home.

Don’t want to get caught in the rain.