The rain sketched subtle shapes in cloud,
the dark streaks streaming after church:

a weekly potluck of men with dowsing forks
shoveling salt and murmuring,

sliding hats off to lay eyes on the sky,
Daddy-bellies uncurled in the parking lot.

I was rushed home to “batten down the hatches.”
Beautiful, black billows forming—

the wind slapped back my praise.
Shingles’ bang, crack, half-affixed,

warning of puddles in carpet to come
and frying-pan fish. A no-soup season

of stewpots strewn on floors, catching.
A plastic tarp above my bed

filled each night with cymbal rattles, dangling
water. Descant dribble, down the walls

and through the chimney, put out cozy fires.
School clothes smelled of dog and smoke.

Those days, I learned
to say “we needed this” in muddy soccer cleats,

stretched
the damp drumhead of resignation.