The Storm by Richard Jones

I called my father long-distance last night

to let him know how we’re doing —

Andrew feeling much better, the baby kicking,

me taking a turn with the flu, feeling like

I’m inside a glass bubble. My father patiently

waited for me to finish what I was saying,

then eagerly told me about the terrible

thunderstorm, asking if I could hear

the rain beating down. Suddenly

neither of us was talking,

I stood with the phone to my ear,

listening to drumming on the skylight

in my father’s kitchen, picturing an old man

holding the receiver up to the thunder and darkness