A Slow Coming Storm

A slow coming storm
over Texas,
swing open the doors
so they don’t rattle,
let it in that wind in the window
through our little home.

I heard about a father
works nearby to me
next building over
and last week
he forgot his baby
in the car seat
inside an SUV
parked on an asphalt lot
and the baby died
in the heat.

I heard Obama will speak tonight
on race and the black church.
He’s going describe
just what I seen
Mobile, Brooklyn
Covington, Houston
white-robed women
old man dancing down the aisle
threadbare red carpet
straight-backed pews
a white woman in the corner
an Indian kid in the back
and thunder in the pulpit.

We need the thunder and wind
the cool air, rain over curb
rain breaking through the seals
of our cars, rain
boxing the traffic lights
sogging our shoes
whipping the haughty towers,
oil-slicked rain draining
through gutter and bayou
choking every ditch
lifting anthills
drowning highway ramps
throwing cars over rooftops.

I want to wake up to a new city.