I must have double-booked.
I’m so sorry to leave you hanging like this.
But I’m overdue to converse with rainstorms.
It’s been eons since I bared my soul to apathetic
clouds that could care less about my dilemmas.
I sit in my one solid overly-padded office chair
with a cup of coffee and I spill my swelling guts.
I complain my old man gripes.
I curse my life choices, long past.
I pledge allegiance to Zeus and Hera to no avail
as my body withers and my mind meanders.
I regale the rain with flourishes.
I tell tall tales of alcohol-induced spectacles and
stunts no sober or aged person should attempt.
I plead with the rolling thunder.
If the gods are merely bowling in the heavens,
then perhaps they will tire before another game.
I wish it were possible.
I want science to be on a smoke break.
I need this so badly my jaw is clenched.
But it never comes to pass because I always tire
long before the swirling storms dissipate overhead.
Oh, pardon me.
How long have I been in this chair, gazing outside?
“Long enough,” my daughter answers me finally.
“Come inside and stay awhile, father,” she says.
“Certainly, my dear,” I reply.
She wraps me in a warm quilt
and dutifully refills my coffee.
I hear distant thunder rumbling.
That old familiar deep bone ache.
I reach out to the open balcony doors.
“Did you forget your phone, Papa?” she asks.
I center myself and then smile lovingly back at her.
“No, my dear,” I say. “It’s not that kind of calling.”