Our Kitchen Sink

The storm has passed
and I'm left here
drenched
like that dirty pan
in what was Our Kitchen Sink.
Angry with the thunder,
Mad at the lightening,
but mostly sad in the rain.
Hug good-bye,
like the book's back cover
slid shut,
and a sigh of finality
and completion
powerful enough
to move those clouds
to encourage the sun.
As an afterthought
you predicted that storm.
You precipitated that rain
but neglected to tell me
to bring an umbrella.
So, I'm left here,
drenched,
and I feel a cold coming on
but I've nowhere to go,
no one to shelter me
from my own wrath
and I'm left here,
alone,
and drenched.
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