Iowa Town 1957

He snaps the metal flip-over buckles
on his golashes.
They squeak across the kitchen linoleum.

Hearty winds sway maple branches.
Thunder rumbles in from the fields,
riding the permeating odor of cow manure.

Water begins to run along the curbs.
The plastic slicker smells foreign
to the murky morning.  He licks the back
of his hand to taste the sky.

A bus bringing the farm kids pulls up to the curb.
The flurry of yellow and black
bounces down to the pavement,
scurries into the school.

It can attend one more puddle jumper.

Later, in Geography, the sky
wants to wash away the school’s tedium.
It slinks into every corner of the room.
At two o'clock he breathes out the heavy air,
follows the black second hand
plunking its way to two-thirty.

While all are leaving to go home
rain applauds their pluck.  He flies home
to turn on the TV to hear
Woody Woodpecker laugh.