afternoon at a town unconcerned with a grimace
from the sky. He glowers. He glares.
He strives to blanch the tame blue blush
of pristine July. His frown intensifies.
A single wet drop of Olympian spittle
descends through contortions
of cumuli.
His grumble exacts no tribute
save an idle upward glance and the half-hearted curtsy
of my umbrella. Every other passerby ignores the once-lord
of weather’s unheralded return. No one asks
him for an alibi.
The braised rage of the sun
pierces a cloud in two places—
his unblinking eyes. Blind
to being so scrutinized, vacationers
occupy beaches and benches, luxuriating
in the leisure of their waning weekends while
high above the trimmed green park,
intermittent Frisbees fly.
Only I spot Zeus
observing the frolics of fearless
apostates until the sharp breeze foretold
on TV by pinstriped oracles with Hollywood smiles
shears off his beard with such precipitous
vigor and smothers
his final, silent,
harmless goodbye.
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