On a 50s, turquoise vinyl chair, 
flashlight in hand, our sitter reads
her Bible, one eye wa n der in g
in my direction. “Don’t you be
talking when it thunders, God is.”       

With my 70s, flower-embedded candle,
I stand in peace as the end, according
to my landlady, draws near. “Savage
thunderstorms spew God’s wrath!” 
(Wonder if her cockroaches will live.)  

Now, wind whips black canvas awning
spills a torrent of water onto leaning,
red brick retaining wall, as elm roots surely
inch its slant closer to the drive; thunder lacking,
I predict lacebark’s tawny seeds will appear in fall.