(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.
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