Erato

I lounge on the lanai
and listen to a tattoo
of rain drops,
on screens and ledges
and storm shutters.

Streaks of lightning leap across
a flat Florida landscape
in nano-second bursts,
silent as my goldfish.

As I momentarily
drift off in the silence,
contemplating, "whatever."

I am jolted into the reality
of a long afternoon by
thunder
that I swear, has to be,
a special Florida
thunder.

A sound that is decibels
above,
that which I have heard up-north.

So's I take my journal and
jot down notes of poetic
significance and …

Wait,
I've already written
pieces on rain
and thunder
and lightning.

My muse Erato, in the form of a Force Majeure.

Write a poem about a Frank Sinatra Centennial.
Be a Romeo or Paagliacci.
A Medal of Honor recipient or a Goldbrick.

Something. Anything.

I awaken
from my hiatus
in the humid heat.

My pen found
on the lanai floor.

I write nothing.
©TP/MMXV