Blue as a Wet Butterfly

It rained hard for three days. Back to back smart showers. The streets flooded, stalled automobiles sulking in the middle of Central Avenue like retired steeds ready for the knacker’s yard. What joy watching the wind turning umbrellas inside out and the rain throwing city traffic into complete chaos. The world is coming to an end said my booze-buddy and there was no sweeter voice I had heard.

I know the municipality bosses were having a hard time. Sleepless nights running from pumping station to weather station. And if the water -- the slushy, muddy, post-apocalyptic storm water – was flowing into your bedroom, rising ever so slowly, then it wouldn’t have been fun at all. But none the less a carnival was on

But nothing, not even chaos, lasts for ever. It stopped raining from this morning and I am blue as a butterfly. The party is over. It’s back to sunny and sad. No more squelching through the mud, no more fears of electrocution. I know mosquitoes and flies and all kinds of creepy crawlies are having a good time -- orgies and bacchanalia. And soon their freshly raised troops will be launching pincer attacks on our homes and hearth.

The enveloping sadness is thick as your tresses. The rain has stopped. They are all quiet at the bar and the old regular at Olypub is drinking alone tonight.