by Chris Farago.
Did thunder have a different name
when we were younger?
I don’t recall. I know there was
a boom, always, in my heart
when I heard it, but I felt that
many times otherwise,
when the train went off
the tracks, when sparrows
landed close to the door,
when I saw a misplaced
apostrophe. There was a
thunder boom, and a boom
of the wobble of falling off the page
of the book I couldn’t quite finish
reading. I have six voices through
which I speak to you, maybe seven,
said the boom, and you have at least
as many ears with which to listen.
I was not afraid then, nor am I now.
The thunder is mine, the boom is mine,
the ears are mine, the summer is
forever.