(in Florida, lightning capital of the world)
who lived in his garage in the suburbs,
at least who was nearly always seen there
shirtless, sitting on a case of Budweiser,
hanging his head between tattoed arms
balanced on jeans busted at the knees
was standing on his driveway tonight
in the afterdusk, enflaming a cigarette
that was nearly all I could see of him;
a cheek edge, a red glow like a taillight
through steaming summer rain
was gazing at the silence as dry lightning
traded sword swipes in clouds like anvils.
ďAinít it something?Ē I said from the car door,
across the wilted wedge of grass we shared.
The deaf response flashed beyond us.