WHERE THERE ARE STARS THERE IS NO RAIN
Jerry Dreesen

August. No rain. Nothing moves.
The sky only darkens, rumbles with distant thunder.
Lawns crunch like peanut brittle.
On our porch potted geraniums
are desperate for water.

Inside new carpet has been laid.
A deep wall-to-wall midnight blue.
The house is dark and cool behind drawn curtains.
The hum of the ceiling fan
and soft tock of the clock the only sounds.

There are small flecks of lint scattered like stars
over the thick, dark carpet. I look down, imagine
myself floating above them, wanting only this darkness
then like Thanatos, son of Nyx, pluck them up one by one.

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