The children lay in their beds,
waiting for the storm to go,
sheltering with sheets over their heads
while the winds rage and blow.
Neighbors down the street have heard
these tempests a time before,
and though the storm may move onward
it brews always next-door.
The dark clouds finally part
and the stormfront passes by,
but the thunder is still in his heart,
the rains still in her eye.
His black snakeskin raincoat slithered
as it dragged along slick, neon streets,
its sibilant song scarcely heard
above the thunderstorm’s manic drumbeats.
Standing in her bathrobe alone,
she smoked a cigarette by the window;
the skyline lit when lightning shone,
her green eyes blinded by the fork-tongued glow.
He passed beneath the storm unseen,
slithering through serpentine streets aflood;
his fanged love was a thing unclean,
a brood of vipers nesting in his blood.
Looking through glass and feeling old
as she counted the purse of silver coins,
his love gleamed so false and so cold—
her robe parted, snakes coiling in her loins.