Thunderstorm

I look forward to a time when my eyes will speak rhythms
My hands will smell fresh baked bread before they can see it
and dancing feet will compose volumes on the sidewalk
While my ass reads someone else’s rhyme on a park bench

No one will speak clearly, none distinctly, none with singular style
But music will swell from each to each, a soothing summer shower of sound
And together we will tear into eachothers thunderheads
Evoking shudders to shake a world long forgotten unto itself