To find the sun

the drought ends,
replaced with flood.
No rainbow promises.

Water pools on lonely pavement.
Seeking escape, I drive.

I stop in Calera for gas,
looking for anything dry.
Like a sea-sick pirate
not seeking treasure, just relief.
I settle for a donut.

Back in the car,
fingers stuck to a lost wheel
I turn around, head home.

On Chuckwa, a child
standing in the rain,
drowning in pigtails.

Like Tom Fogerty,
I wonder who will make it stop.

That spot on the ceiling
looks like New Jersey
from here.