Shame on us for cowering at the thunder,
for tensing our muscles at the sonic boom above our heads;
for ever fearing that bolt of lightning would strike us in particular,
little as we are in comparison to the metal poles
whose sole purpose is to shine synthetic light on the soccer field at night;
for wondering if the rain is on our side,
that there even is a side to take, and if there was, that each droplet
— given a conscience, soul and spirit —
would take ours over, say, gravity or luck;
for feeling gray inside and looking out the window,
then renaming that frame a mirror of some kind;
for thinking that puddle is out to get us,
for ridding our wet socks of their rainy-day DNA,
wringing them outside the front door in absolution,
drizzling the welcome mat.