The Prayer Thermos
All night rain, waking
to mop the prayer
from my sleep
When I was
a young man working at a gas station,
a season’s rain fell in one afternoon.
No one bought gas. Cars at the used car lot
floated away down Turkey Creek. Their
recently waxed roofs shining
in the current as they turned like toys
and jammed into the Seventh Street bridge.
Trapped on my little island of gas pumps,
I drank coffee from a thermos. I watched
traffic inching the road, mothers, fathers,
children with their faces pressed to the windows.
I imagined there was something I could do
if they were swept away. The phone lines
down. No rescue to call. Maybe wading
waist deep, at most up to my armpits,
my shoes losing traction, the parkway
I mowed yesterday a squeeze of mud,
my coffee steaming
in the little boat of my thermos.
cattail bending,
the blackbird’s perch
slapped with flood
Al Ortolani, a winner of the Rattle Chapbook Prize, is a contributing editor to the Chiron Review. His poems have appeared in Rattle, One Art, and the Pithead Chapel. His most recent collection of poetry is Controlled Burn, published by Spartan Press. His first young adult novel Bull in the Ring has been recently released by Meadowlark Books.
