In The Summer Afternoon

The sky of slanting blue, the dust, the heat

as summer sneaks up like a hungry wolf;

fierce sun that melts the tar onto the street

and sucks the water from the murky Gulf.

I was five when clouds rose dark as ravens

Spreading midnight wings beyond the trees.

“It’s night,” I whispered, staring at the heavens;

I thought my parents had forgotten me.

The storm came fast; I watched the water rise—

The flood meant that my parents couldn’t reach me.

My babysitter took me to her house nearby;

I slept there in her Acapulco beach tee.

In Houston, summer is for hurricanes:

The unexpected, violent mundane.