Asia’s Rain

Cannons of clouds fire rain straight down
from their boiling black muzzles
each day in December
from exactly 3:30 to 4:30 p.m.
to explode the cheap tin roofs
in the townships, detached from the cities
and the servant’s shacks, detached from the white houses,
but there is no apartheid of heat and noise.
It’s like a bomb blast that lasts
for the long summer hour,
contained by flimsy construction,
absorbed by the oil-dark bodies
sitting and waiting within.
When the noise stops, the people emerge
into the breathable air
and feel the cool, moist earth
beneath bare feet.