With palms pressed to
the sliding glass door
I turn my face to the west
and watch a disgruntled sky churn
deepest blue, darkest gray.
I place my cheek to the glass,
desiring a cool place to rest and
finding only sunbaked pillow.
The rain begins inside, beading at temple
and trailing between breasts, while
damp hair coils and vines to
form a lariat around my neck.
Humidity pulls her corset strings tighter,
bullying ribcage and razoring breath.
With lungs swimming,
I close my eyes and imagine
sliding the heavy door open-
seizing- a wayward breeze
capturing- a sigh of relief.
Motionless trees pronounce the futility of both.
At my feet, rebel cats plea for release-
yearning to roam the garden jungle and
to nap in the cool earth below the deck.
I push away from the glass, stalking
across the floor as would-be lions weave
between my legs, painting my
wet calves with their fur.
We settle, finally, for the couch- just three
domesticated creatures waiting out
the storm- and longing to ride shotgun.