I Can Always Precipitate

Lately,

everything feels like a storm coming.

Just yesterday,

I was walking down Main Street

and looking up at these clouds

flying up into themselves

and I tripped on a crack

in the sidewalk,

because I was imagining

the whole town turning

into a war zone.

Then I remembered

that when storms come,

people can get into their cars

or houses

and holding each other,

watch it pass

from behind the safety of windows,

or they can listen to it

through the wall,

the way I did

when I listened to my parents arguing

and sometimes thought

I heard one of them saying

something unimaginably

cruel to the other,

and that seems to take the edge off

all that anxiety

trying to hailstorm my eyes

out of my head,

and the storm,

which at first

seemed like an thermonuclear event

that could peel the flesh off

everything it touched as it strolled by,

seems at worst

like an estranged relative’s

wedding reception

you can’t just make a pit stop at,

where you end up playing

banana phone

with somebody’s dust devil of a kid

who won’t stop breaking wind

and sleeting peas

out of his mouth,

green on your napkin.

It makes me feel

a little more in control,

which means

a little more here,

to learn that

everything I think I know

is usually a smaller

and less urgent version

of what actually is,

and that when I feel held down

and opened up

by a force I can’t see,

I can always precipitate

toward a perspective

where everything I land on

gets watered,

like everything that gets cooled off.