Sunday evening
we watch the lightning
lick the sky like angry lizards;
the humidity clings
to every centimeter of our
sun-kissed skin.
I can hear the neighbor boys
bursting with a mix of terror and ecstasy,
simultaneously gasping and
exclaiming
as they experience
the image of God
splattering radioactive yellow paint
across a slate grey canvas
and then quickly erasing it
with his gargantuan hands
and wiping them clean
by clapping off the flecks
with an unmatched bravado.
He's crying now, you know -
big, sloppy tears upon the parboiled earth
hoping to
wash it all away.