POEM: Motor Lodge King Lear

Throw torrents — bending them with wind gusts, sending water spattering against the glass as if propelled by a preternatural hand.

The earth tells by its tone that it’s waterlogged. Saturated soil turns away droplets like an overbooked hotel during festival days — which is to say — not as quickly as new arrivals can pack themselves into the metaphorical lobby.

Water piles up, seeking to soak into the sheltering fundament, but held back by the mass of those rain-blobs that fell first.

Meanwhile, in a hotel [real, not metaphorical] a crowd piles in to test the veracity of the “No Vacancy” neon burning as brightly as the nasty night will allow. One man, head raised skyward, is screaming taunts at the foul weather like a motor lodge King Lear. The others would roll eyes and mock the man’s lunacy, but they are busy silently screaming into their souls.

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