Poem: To The Rainstorm Disturbing My Sleep

3 a.m. rainstorms, we have to stop meeting like this.

The first time,
when you woke me up with lightning in your dancing eyes,
I thought, What's one night of sleep, more or less?

It was a forbidden-fruit kind of fun,
lying in my bed while the rest of the world was sleeping,
and thinking deep thoughts as you drummed your fingers against the window
and sang me little songs and made me forget about
 everything except you.

We were a little island in the night, just you and I.
 I was warm and safe and my poet’s soul never second guessed myself.

(Until that afternoon, when I had to own to all the yawning.  Because what's one night of sleep, between lovers?)

But the second time?

The second time, when you raged outside my house
 and hammered your fists against my front door
and threatened to tear the roof off if I didn’t
pay attention to you,
talk with you,
dance with you,
love you,
and I spent too many sleepless hours
trying not to let you in, until the dawn and the wind (dear neighbors) frightened you off for me?

Then I regretted letting you in that first time.

No, 3 a.m. rainstorm, we can't meet like this anymore.

I'm in a healthy, committed relationship with my 6 a.m. alarm,
and I'm not going to break up something like that
for a little hidden pleasure with a rainstorm on the side.