Soapbox

I remember running
through sudden summer showers.
The first fat, petulant drops take you by surprise as
they kick up tiny explosions of dust on the sidewalk,
then the leaves look away
and a rush of earth cool lifts
your hair from your sweating neck.
You laugh,
hold your hands out before you
as if each chubby drop that finds them
were a jewel in a poverty of heat.
Indignant over your amusement
the sky lashes out in earnest then,
and you lift your feet high
almost prancing
as you rush to find a doorway or tree for shelter,
inhale the heady aroma of hot wet concrete
and delighted, gulping vegetation.
Lightning staccatos around you
and a riff of thrash-metal thunder lends you speed
but no sooner do you reach safety
than your own shadow finds you there
as the sun returns.
You realize that the cloud's tirade was
no more than a fit of pique, after all.
Rain still pummels you with tiny fists
but the sun soothes any lingering bad temper
and for a minute, the wet world shines so brightly
that you can only close your eyes and just
breathe while your shirt begins to steam.