Townhall Meeting

It started the day they banned the lightning
after the mess the boy caused in the windmill
making giants from bits of bodies and dreams.
The cats he began with lie scattered about
dead limbs twitching under watchful dog eyes.

At the town meeting, someone said: - though no one,
after, could say who. Just someone, who said -
"What about the children?" And the silence was
a horrified emptiness as eyes met eyes and
fears reflected each other. "No," someone said.
"We won't allow that. Not for children. There are laws."
"Yes, child protection laws!" someone else screamed.

And then it was old Mr. Tuck, who said: "It rains."
And everyone stared, blank-eyed and confused.
"Storms come with the rain," he said, slow, feeling
for words with his tongue. "The boy used a storm.
Lightning, from the sky." And eyes turned slowly
to the boy who sat, frozen under spotlight glares,
saying nothing, eyes dull slate grey. Because
they were older, and deserving of respect, he
did not laugh, only looked sad and solemn, like
a too young undertaker in his Sunday best suit his
mother had insisted he wear, three sizes too small,
his arms dangling out like long, monster things.

The banning was past, but like the one about clouds
on a summer day, it failed to appease nature, or be heard.
And the lightning came down, clear blue-white, blinding,
and the experiment repeated itself, because something
repeated is no longer unique, but merely common,
and the dead rose, lightning-spastic twitching shapes,
and came home hoping for a late afternoon tea.