While we wait for Superman
and our friends build bomb shelters
a low thunder rumbles, proving our
certainty justified. The forecast
calls for rain: 100%. The cloud
with the lightening bolt flying out
comically warns us: an image so
innocent and besides, we’ve been through
storms. We know what to expect.

We wait. The only growing moisture
comes from our backs and butts
up against the stiff wood seating
[it can’t breathe]
and aren’t sure why it is warm…
but is it the seat or is it me?
It sure isn’t the sky. It has
yet to open up.

We hear the rumble again, look
out the window at a charcoal sky;
with the eternal hope of an ever-
coming savior: never here, but always
almost. We see our neighbors peeking
through their blinds, ducking out
of sight, returning to the safety inside.

When they walk past, they are easily
noticed, for none have come
in so very long. If not for the ink
on their arms, we might think they
were local. Or coming home. But alas
they continue past and we bring it
back to the group. One dares to ask
But where are their umbrellas?
Don’t they know the storm is coming?
The question draws murmurs but no
sound, really. Certainly no other words.
Just repeating
Where are their umbrellas?
          The storm is coming!
As if our words were prayers, the crack
comes, shaking the building, dust falls
from the rafters. We flock to the
windows, for surely the sky has opened
and the storm has finally come and
we, sheltered, will weather until
he comes to whisk us away.

The stars break the dusk and flames
rain down upon the heads of strangers.
Men and women and children, faces,
skin of every hue, engulfed in an
inferno of startling power; gasping,
weeping we watch the fires flicker
on others and the rain never falls.