They always say, “It’ll rain at midnight.”
Two minutes, five, then
seven hours after
an announcement deafening ears,
a promise to those with fledgling gardens.
I quietly smirk without words
to place my misunderstood order
at the tallest counter, tiles in every shade
of our four feared oceans.
“You forgot the Antarctic.”
Valley of weeds will land my fall
and the tumble through clovers
so cutting at the outermost edge
while my feet hit bits of sighing rock.
The day for parasols passed
and returns so unexpectedly
like cravings for milk and its magnetism
that trapped the healthy, only once.
“I’d like mine with half and half.”
Cat No. 77 of the 500 Cats Project