On the Cement slope

On the long cement driveway
we sit in the relaxed row of
family safety, watching
the future arrive.

We press hands over ears
and hear the thump inside.
Pressure smoothing hair,
electricity curling strands
into thin, snapping
ropes.

There must be a signal upstairs
tripped by voltage, humidity,
pressure. Rain pumps down,
spigot wide open, through the
spongy clouds lined up on the
blue runway ahead.

At last, who bends first,
for the awkward run to
the garage, standing
hypnotically close to the
edge of wet mixed with
the heavy smell of gas
and grit.