‘Twas a hot humid summer night
When it started raining heavily.
A young man gets sleepy when it rains
So he retired with neither shorts nor sheet.
Just past midnight he was awakened
By rain being blown against his feet.
The wind was blowing violently
And tearing his potted garden apart.
He raced down the stairs
Through the malodorous guano
Dripping through the porch ceiling cracks
To rescue his passion flower vine.
At the Spoken Word, someone read
The story of an Indian maid who centuries ago
Wandered the streets, sans clothing.
There’s a passion flower on the page of her story.
History does repeat itself
In far away times and places
Causing things not usually talked about
To be written on paper and perhaps read aloud.