Nursing beer and troubles on my porch
with this corncob packed and lit,
when a rumble of thunder
in the southern summer
gives my thoughts a short respite.
Rain drips from the eaves
to the floor, where it leaves
soft patters like tapping fingers.
Breeze picks up, snuffs my match;
now in darkness I watch
eerie lights start to circle and linger.
Green will o’ the wisps
why’d you come out tonight
to flirt beneath such stormy skies?
If you still pursue love
flouting death from above,
well, then no complaints have I.