Weekly Poem: "The woman who wouldn’t come in out of the rain."

The woman who wouldn’t come in out of the rain.

At first, sunshine.

“I’ll only be a minute,” I say.

She sits in the car,

windows wide open,

gesturing with an unlit cigarette.

It pours rain,

on her, on me.

Lighter forgotten.

At the IGA, I wait in line, interminably.

And watch the rain come down through the sliding glass double doors,

feeling vaguely guilty.

I don’t go out to roll up the car windows.

I don’t leave my cart, two packages of cookies for the Coffee Klatch,

the yellow cake mix.

I pay and then leave.

Lighter forgotten.

She doesn’t come in out of the rain.

Waiting, at the liquor store, I wipe down the side panels with napkins

from the glove compartment.

Feeling vaguely guilty.

Lighter forgotten.

After the meeting

we stop again at the IGA.

Again I wait in the car,

feeling vaguely guilty.

She gets cheese and a lighter.

On the way home, gesturing with a lit cigarette,

window open to the cool afternoon air.

Blue skies above.

© Anne Westlund

prompt:  “The Boy Who (blank)”