Last Chance for Rain

She brought his mail each day at three.

He watched the clock hands position,

pointing in perpendicular lines.

He unfolded from leather chair-

over six feet stretched across gaunt frame,

made his way to door, welcomed a waiting smile.

 

She gave him his bundle, rubber band stretched taut.

He thumbed through election propaganda, bills and ads.

“Take this crap back where it came from,” he teased.

“Last chance for rain,” she observed, eying clouds

brewing above, “I should run, before it busts loose.”

 

She touched his gnarled hand, a labyrinth

of purple veins branched out like tribal art.

His grasp, vice-grip strong, was surprising

for over nine decades of wear and tear.

She noticed his wrist, a small pear stone-

silver hair planted, bloomed over bone