Squall

By David Roth

© 7^th 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 28^th Place.

Skimboarding surfers in the hood.

And when the surf ran dry

and the pipelines

we dreamed we rode

dried up,

we headed up to the A&P

and the flooded lot

we knew was waiting.