Down here, the thunder above
ghosts in your ears,
you hear a rush; a surge
from tonight's rain,
drown the tip of one slipper;
lay siege to your dog's paws,
muscle across the concrete floor.
The smell of urine; of mold.
Down here, dark, the power out,
it's easy to think you can feel
all storms in your storm—even, say,
a storm waged, an unnatural storm that rages
weeks, months. So long that you take up residence
beneath a ceiling that shifts, moans with the weight
of close bombardment; a ceiling you try to hold up
with the slim arms of hope. The anthem of your hope,
as you remember, each intimate detail
of up there—the life you lived. The life you can almost
Touch. Is it still there?