The Meteor’s Shower

Daddy drives out of town.
Stops in a dark lot.
Mommy and Telly carry lights
for sake of the black moon,
tall grasses scrape arms and legs.
Grains shift and slide, fill and empty
my sandals.
Give ’em up
to the jolt of dry cool grains between toes.
An orange-white quilt spreads out.
Lights off
and in the dark my eyes start to see,
the world in grey sparkle.
My ever-present friend
prances about.
We lie down and stare.
Too many stars,
I try to find them all.
Bright skid mark on the sky,
a chorus of children
and a crashing wave.
Fiddle the sand,
retie orange yarn.
Gasp and sigh.
Trails of afterlight burning the sky.

Daddy calls it a “Meteor Shower.”

“Meteors?
Meteors need showers ?”

And at 27 I find I need the showers, falling from space through wet salty air,
I need the showers.

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