Ken Gierke

 

 

Rainy Day

Sax and organ, back and forth,
dance with Jimi’s guitar,
the drums laying it down
between, beneath them.
All of it laid back and smooth,
a nice counter to the rain
pelting the windshield
as we head past Boonville, I-70
a sheen with fractured taillights
on one side and headlights sparkling
on the other. My grip on the wheel
loosens as the music soothes me,
a light touch that’s needed
after a sleepless night waiting
for this trip to begin, be over.
Then Jimi tells me to dream away
on this rainy day, groove on this gift
of nature as the sun takes a holiday.
I’m reminded that we’ve been hammered
by a heatwave and drought, and this rain
is what we need. Heading westward,
holding steady at seventy, I ride out the rain
as Jimi’s guitar really comes alive,
ripping through those sheets of rain
until it’s just a mist clinging to the trees.
And he’s right, it did drain my worries away.