The Last Thunder of the Season

      by  William Doreski

Sliding under a parked truck

to escape a sodden outburst

I surprise you and your lover,

whose face crumbles like a cake.

The air sizzles with blue shocks.

The rain, a cold November rain,

clatters in a sheaf of alloys.

You wanted to evade the dark

that permeates the small talk

that plagues coffee shops and restaurants

and even soils the museums

full of smudged, old-fashioned art.

Now you look a little shopworn

with your lover coiled around you

and the truck engine dripping oil

on the most precious parts of you.

What if with a horrible grunt

that diesel engine should start

and you have to roll out naked

before the huge tires rotate?

Your lover shrugs into his trousers

with enviable agility.

You pull your pieces together

with somewhat grimmer difficulty,

muttering about coincidence

honed and pointed like a harpoon.

The rain will stop soon enough,

but if lightning strikes near enough

we three could fry in colors

the spectrum hasn’t acknowledged

for many thousands of years.

Your lover isn’t used to my talk                      

and looks insulted and abashed.

You, though, with your favors

briefly exposed, haven’t blushed.

You know me too well to worry

that I’d write up this incident

and emblazon it in public runes

as if hoping to shame you.

The rain wrestles itself blind,

a distant line of trees tosses,

and the last thunder of the season

corrugates across the horizon

like a carnivore with a cough.

Bio: William Doreski's  work has appeared in a fair number of journals, and he has taught creative writing for some years. He  now lives in the woods and watches the snow fall.