My Wife Bailing the Garage During Hurricane Hanna
Standing in the pouring rain,
in Robin’s soaked-through soccer jacket
and her own loose-fitting beige slacks
and black sandals, soaking wet,
her new short hair-do dripping, pasted
to her head. She bends over
scoops up some water in her bucket,
pours it into the larger trash barrel.
Then we drag it up
to the street and dump it over.
She stands for a moment,
her face in profile, strong and shining,
slippery from all the water,
hands on her hips, like her mom used to stand,
catching her breath, before heading
back down the driveway to repeat
the process. “I’m so sorry
you have to do this, Honey,” I say to her.
“Well, we’re in this together,”
she responds. Yes, I suppose so,
but I hate her having to do
such heavy labor,
hate her standing there soaking wet
in the rain, clothes sticking to her
as if they were sprayed onto her lush body,
her face all wet and shimmering,
shining in the moonlight.