Static Charge

The sky is the color of a bad bruise

pressing down on the corrugated roof

of the bus shelter. The streetlights die

all at once, a sudden lack of proof

that we ever had control.

Then the ozone hits, a scorched iron smell,

and the lightning cracks the air wide open.

On the asphalt, the oil swirls into snakes,

iridescent and hungry, twisting through

the rising water while the world shakes.