Just past dinner time, up north that’s lunch,
I found myself, as usual, standing out on the road.
With a slap of my wooden WHAMO sling shot,
the mail box door, painted green,
red signal flag on its left side,
eye level to me, nailed to the post, slammed shut.
Under my arm, the Richmond Times,
assorted mail to Mr. and Mrs. James Harvey Edwards.
All the while a tempest storm was coming.

Weather in the south is never a surprise
it comes with full announcements;
“Ladies and Gentleman, children of all ages,
sheets of precipitation, gusting wind,
for everyone’s full enjoyment
lighting and rolling thunder.”

I slowly began my return down the
tractor grooved gravel driveway.
Over my left shoulder
dark foreboding tumultuous clouds
brood and fester over the tree tops
as if alive, furiously without hesitation
they engulf the road, fields and pond,
the storm wall approaches.

In full view, Hell's gates have opened.
Though on its door step
for some reason, I am in no hurry.
What was I thinking?
Out on the porch is Grandma,
hands on here hips, head shaking
“Child, didn’t your momma teach you
when to come inside from out the rain?”

With that a lighting bolt cracked,
“BOOM” like that of a mortar shell reported.
Before Grandma’s hands reached her side
I was standing there next to her.
Looking down she gave me that smile
only Grandma’s have, sighed
and gathered the slightly damp mail.
Since none of it was mine I sat down
on the porch to listen to God bowling
while the angels cried.