West Town Storm

I wonder if there’s anything That I, tonight, can rhyme about. It’s ’most too late to write of spring And—Wait a bit; the lights are out.

Now naught to do but watch the flash Of lightning, listen to the rain. And tremble at the thunder’s crash And—Wait a bit; they’re on again.

Where was I headed at the time The darkness came? O, yes, I know; I sought a subject for a rhyme. Well—Wait a minute; there they go.

I wonder if my meter keeps Right on when current’s on the bum. Or if it, through the darkness, sleeps And—Wait a minute; here they come.

Why didn’t you stay out all night, False lights? For now ideas have fled. I’ll wager, though, you’ll burn all right. Yea, steadily, when I’m in bed.