By David Roth
© 7th August, 2011
It looked like a summer squall
to anyone else – the uninitiated,
the elderly – old farts – that’s
what we called our parents,
because we knew it was more.
Five minutes of torrential rain
in the street in front of our house
while the back yard remained dry.
We watched it walk,
like a moving wall of water;
Niagara falls on our neighborhood street
creeping down the block,
a flood left in its passing
with minutes to spare before
the thirsty gravel road
sucked it dry.
So we grabbed our boards.
Thirty-six inches of half inch plywood
cut in as close an approximation of a circle
as our limited skills would allow,
and we tossed them,
ran behind them,
jumped in place,
and rode the homemade waves of 28th Place.
Skimboarding surfers in the hood.
And when the surf ran dry
and the pipelines
we dreamed we rode
we headed up to the A&P
and the flooded lot
we knew was waiting.