When the Rain Stops
The radar shows the downpour
will end in five minutes,
eight of us stand on the veranda
of the brewery
waiting for it to let up
before we resume our cornhole competition,
this is a game of slanted boards, beanbags
measured distance,
sacred rules and cash prizes.
Without apparent reason the screen
switches to the news
with video of a war bombing
followed by a frame of a frantic man
holding what could be a lifeless child,
he holds his arms out
as if giving us a gift.
Someone curses
and grabs the remote
to switch it back to the weather.
When the rain stops
we stomp down the steps
to the cornhole pit.
Noone seems to want to pick up
a beanbag
4 thoughts on "When the Rain Stops"
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I love the interaction that the title has with this poem. It left me thinking about how life demands we play on even when we don’t know how or necessarily want it to.
Oh my, Jim, a picture for an everyday experience that tells so much beyond one game day. Must confess: I kept thinking a homophone for “rain,” especially in the context of “… a game of slanted boards … sacred rules and cash prizes.”
This poem gets me. I almost thought these friends were indifferent to the lifeless child, but those last two lines, the reluctance to toss a beanbag, is strangely reassuring. Our humanity is not lost yet.
What we pay attention to, what we can pay attention to. What we know anyway. Almost Catholic in its guilt: sins of omission.
But you do it so lightly….