The worst thunderstorm of the season,
and here I am, in a town I know nothing about,
cringing from predatory lightning,
my front fender a prow through sudden lakes,
my wipers beating frantically,
holding back water in sheets.

And I am lost,
randomly rolling up one street, down another,
a victim of bum directions
given by a utility guy at the curb
with orange hardhat and bad teeth.

I’m looking for an old brownstone schoolhouse
where we’re to meet tonight,
but I’m caught in a web of one-way streets,
drawing me on an inward spiral
toward the tough core of town.

Rowhouses clutter each side of the street
narrowed by gauntlets of parked cars.
Men in sleeveless undershirts
watch with suspicion from their stoops.
I pull over to let another car pass.

I turn a corner and to my left
is a tall chain-link fence with lightning-rod posts,
the right-field boundary of a little league park.
Lightning rips the sky, and six kids, soaked,
scatter from the field to their homes.

Finally, I slip out of this forlorn neighborhood,
and by serendipity or blind luck, find the schoolhouse.
Those of us who assemble curse the night’s weather,
and congratulate each other’s bravery.

When the evening is over, we return to our homes,
leaving this convoluted town.
Thunder still rolls in the distance.

07/22/2002

Posted on 07/22/2002
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt