Tumescent cumuli
redden the western sky.
Melted by the sun,
the rain waits for an hour,
then dumps a full day’s load
on the heads of shoppers
and commuters headed home,
damp and grateful
for the rain-slick streets,
the weeks of dust slaked
and washed happily gurgling,
down any available drain or hole.
Lightning knits the bosom
of the sky to the terraces
and glassy towers below.
The chrome and jungled yards,
the million-engined city beast,
suckles the monsoon milk
that vanishes before
the midnight clocks have struck
and thirsty dawn returns.
