A Group Lobotomy

One massive fist of thunder
descends from a marbled sky
and pierces the membrane stretched
between ourselves and the fear

of absolute weather. We quake
like saplings and duck indoors
and find ourselves in a café
of faces dimmed by antiquity.

We easily fit in, chatting up
men with beards of uncarded wool
and women tough as locomotives.
We order cappuccino and choose

a seat by the window to watch
the downpour misspell every name
and vaporize the parking lot
so no one will risk driving home.

The thunder drags its heavy paws
over the hills, leaving scorch marks
to testify to its grim intentions.
That one clenched fist still lingers

in the frontal lobe where memory
is a shock wave, a pattern etched
in a thin layer of metal placed
between us, between us and others,

We stare into the depth of the rain
and wonder what science would say
about this group lobotomy—
painless, probably for the best.