Saturday, May 16, 2009



In the office pantry, we watch
from 13 floors up, and curse
at the bloated clouds: fat
gray rams tramping on the edge
of the blue horizon, waiting
for us to leave the office.


The rain smacks down, warm
like globs of spit; the wind
steers them sideways to get
at us under our umbrellas;
shoes land in unexpected puddles,
pickling feet in sweat and slush.


Storm drains cough and sputter; water
winds through constipated traffic;
flower brushes, tropic palms,
young saplings fall over
and drown; and the rain drops
dance and skips on their floating limps.

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