An Expatriate Truth

(from the NaPoWriMo prompt: write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon.)

It doesn’t matter

where it is—

sixty kilometers

north of the equator

on the east coast

of Borneo

or in Hong Kong

back in the early ‘80s

when we found that

great Mexican restaurant

or on the pitch in Kent

or in the park in Zurich

or by the Gulf of Sidra,

our backs to the deep

Sahara—

our language

is our handcarry.

When it rains

hard enough,

it is always a

gully-washer.