Low Pressure System

The neighbor’s wind chimes went horizontal first,

a frantic metal clatter against the siding.

Then the sky turned the color of a bad bruise

and the Wi-Fi router gave up the ghost.

I’m sitting in the kitchen in the sudden dark.

The sliding glass door is vibrating in its track,

a low, tectonic rattle that gets in my teeth

every time the clouds decide to crack.

It smells like wet asphalt and ozone now.

The rain isn't falling so much as it's leaning,

pushing against the glass like a heavy shoulder

that wants to know if I’m still listening.