Afternoon Monsoon

The sky doesn’t break—it surrenders,
all at once, a flood without apology.
This isn’t rain that falls;
it’s rain that occupies,
swallowing streets whole,
turning parking lots into temporary lakes,
sidewalks into shallow rivers.

The palm trees bow under the weight,
fronds sagging like exhausted arms.
Gutters choke and spit,
storm drains gasp, overwhelmed.
Cars push through, slow and stubborn,
Wake-waves lapping at curbs.

It’s the kind of rain that laughs at umbrellas,
that soaks you through in seconds,
that reminds you water always wins.
The air thickens—
damp heat and wet asphalt,
the scent of ozone and mildew,
of earth giving up and giving in.

And when it finally stops (because it always does,
even when it feels endless),
the world steams.
Pavement exhales,
puddles shimmer like mirages,
and the cicadas roar back to life,
as if nothing ever happened.

But the ditches are still full,
the ground squelches underfoot,
and somewhere,
another dark cloud gathers,
heavy with the promise
of more.