Rain Stopped Play
The tyranny of the empty document
waiting for words to conjure
pictures
is not unlike the falling deluge
– consigned,
it would seem, to
frustrate –
there, in
Within locker rooms, ideas
now have time
to swim, to compete, to picture
beyond a finish line to
their final fixture,
and my Filipina has it all
to do:
Set down, a second pending
on serve, and can only
gesture at the ending.
But it is not two players
looking up; offering
prayers,
but nimbostratus hanging
like a grubby shroud
finger on the trigger,
who will determine any outcome
here.
And you, my love, on
hiatus,
taking a nap, trusting
these hungover grey skies
will clear, all disguises
disappear, suns will rise;
obstacles abound for his might
to confound –
some deus ex machina hanging
around
to absolve our chimerism
someday, one day:
bring players back to
court after rain stops play.
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