Good Chance For Rain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When there is lightning, I want to be close to
You, and help you gather chickens under the
Propitious stars,
And listen to you clucking what it means under
The new rafters of a Pacific home;
With your eyes abolished like nocturnal flowers
Greeting the dawn and laying off the boys,
Kill my lines for you, finish of the glasses around
You neck making them resemble a homeopathic
Spell- like an object in a morning class,
Whispering to you in the dysfunctional language
Of boys gathered from the comely harvests of France:
That I’ve had two dreams of you over the last
Fortnight: One was just that you’d left your backpack
And gone off wandering, searching for wild berries
And sustenance, but last night I kissed under long
Moments laying here with my loaded rifle,
Mystified by the constellations around your bereavement-
But I’m still in Arizona, perhaps higher than any grave
Yard on this continent, and by Tuesday of next week
There will be a forty percent chance for rain.