When the Rainstorm Hits

The principal

said she wanted to have sex

in the back of her tiny pickup

when a Sometimes a Great Notion level

rainstorm walloped Waldport.

It was her favorite novel.

She was kind of a Hank Stamper

in her own modern way.

She’d pull the tailgate down,

throw open the canopy,

shove her surfer shit to the side,

we’d dive onto the yoga mat,

rustle up some moldy blankets,

she’d wrench up the tailgate,

slam down the canopy

with a super clank!

She wanted to hear the cannonade

of rain smashing into the canopy,

the shaking,

screws unscrewing,

clamps unclamping.

Maybe rollers on the ocean

mixed in the soundtrack.

She didn’t want to hear anything human.

Her husband wouldn’t know.

They were swingers anyway.

When the rainstorm hit,

and school wasn’t in session (!)

she’d text me.

I would race to the parking lot overlooking Alsea Bay.

Twenty minutes

if I don’t get stuck behind

an RV or log truck.

What happens if it’s light outside?

Or the parking lot is full?

All the better she says.

We’re going to make our own country song!

With no lyrics!

Rainstorms came and went.

It never happened.

If it had, no poem.

Mystery over planning,

I think.