Inroad
The radiance that is always around us is incited
when we win, & even the rain is exciting
on a Monday morning in June, especially
if last night’s mist is recalled
for how it spit in the face of Yankee righthander
Joba Chamberlain, jinxing
his delivery—I don’t
mean it dropped a hairball on this guy
or anything…but, hey,
why not? And now? Now an inroad is about to be made,
over by the factory where a roll of Necco Wafers got a redo
as a double-helix—
an ultimatum is about to be issued, near the gyrating exhausts
of the Novartis vaccines lab—& lightning
will return then, short-sighted & cross after having
been abducted for months, its blood sugars
burning down the creator’s forests & scattering
the girls’ lacrosse squad at MIT. The lightning gets cranky
little by little, all of us do by late morning, then tired,
and lightning is not by any means reasonable
to begin with, not calm—
everything gets blown up by its point of view—
an ultimatum will be delivered then—
and all at once we’ll agree to be lucky, splendid, & damp.
