Not Yet

It was too gray to think, even to sulk.
Layering overhead, holding back the blue,
More fat waves steaming from the earth
Glided by in their ranks.
Each was much like the others, bloated
And drab, immune to the sun,
Keeping its intentions to itself.
As I sat half-lit with incandescence,
I set the stars aside-
There would be no show this night,
Just the murky feel of precipitation held in check,
Casting off its heat, prepared to empty
Out the lowered skies, polishing the darkness.
The room seemed to expand around me,
Gathering its own ascending molecules. Then the walls
Let out a gasp and drew inward, almost to my side.
That was when I heard the drum roll-
Low, arrhythmic, a student awkward with his sticks.
When I inquired of the west window,
It had nothing to report.
The night spun on, devoid of constellations,
Anticipating an outburst, but content to proceed-
Wrapped up like a wound not yet inflicted.

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