Outside, distant thunder applauds the performance
of rain dancing on the pavement strewn with magenta vinca blossoms.
In here, the clock, tripped up by a power blip during the night,
flashes a time that is not now, and therefore, by my groggy-headed logic,
this moment is timeless and must be savored,
so I snuggle into my nest of pillows for a Sunday-morning lie-in,
happy that the sheets on now are the soft jersey ones,
glad that I started the dishwasher, its hum-swoosh-and rattle cycle
oddly comforting–domestic, mundane, familiar.
The Radio One presenter starts every sentence with “Basi’ly”
and plays a Sam Smith ballad that’s sad in a good way,
especially when his voice climbs for the trademark high notes
in the bittersweet chorus, and though I’m lying here inbed,
arms wrapped around nothing but a pillow, I’m lying
to myself, and in the lie, I’m dancing with the rain–
a slow dance, a last dance, but dancing all the same.
T. Allen Culpepper