SPARK

Ray Sharp

Response

Jennifer Fendya

Inspiration

After the Flood

I wake up at 6 AM to the sound of rain

and think, “I’m not in Houston.” My day

will be, as yesterday was, filled with

the ordinariness of my life, the familiarity

of small choices, the occasional siren going

past my office window, Ken’s assistant

across the hall clearing her throat

in that repetitive way, the sound of

the photocopier churning out details of

wills, estates and trusts.

I’ll do my work and drive home musing

over how to spend my evening. I’ll suppose

I should stop for groceries, make my lunch

for tomorrow (TGIF!), pay some bills online,

take a long walk and put off housecleaning

for the weekend. But that’s all conjecture,

some future that may turn out quite differently.

So I lie here and sense the coming of fall,

the change in the angle of sunlight

I can’t see on this cloudy day. I listen to

the kid next door revving his engine as he

backs into the garage, and I wish there was

someone else here to get up before me

to turn on the coffee. I regret last night’s

3^rd glass of chianti, or the 4^th, and your

uncensored text message, and I wonder

“Who plans for 50 inches of rain but Noah?”

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