does the tick of my old clock
sound like thunder to the wall spider
trembling on her web above the fireplace
where the feather duster never reaches?
outside a rattle of rain and hail interspersed with -
you know the drill, first the flash and then the thunder.
once upon a time the boys all called me Flash -
but only for the camera, never for the centerfold picture.
and the resonance of egos and bruises
rumbles down the web to this day, when the rain falls
to the roof that is mine and the life that is mine - do
with them what I want to. another bang, another crash.
