09.10.2004 - 1:18 p.m.

This is the end of a hurricane, swirled clouds in tiers, one blue spot like an eye, the others like torn fabric. Sunset. Three fat drops on my skin, five on the windshield. I can beat the rain if the light would only turn, I can be on time if I had just one chance to get out of first gear. A wet hit to my shoulder, one more on the passenger seat. I can hear the odometer clicks in the wheelwells the next lane over, tick, tick, slowly, under the heavy parts of the cloud-carcass, lit yellow, yellow and still the red light, the traffic jam, the vortical churning in my stomach that is not impatience but some sort of fear, related to where I am trying to go, to the corpse of a hurricane, and to accidentally losing five pounds in four days.

One raindrop on my arm, two more on the hood, and one crawling green light.

The sky isn�t the only thing tearing itself apart.

-stonebridge

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