It’s become a pattern
Those days where I become sticky
And sealed up in a yucky film
Like an old shower curtain clinging to itself
And I decide nothing could be better
Than a full on drenching cold soak,
And tra la la, it’s raining!
And I take all the stuff out of my pockets and
and it has invariably paused.
But still I wander down the sidewalk,
admiring lilies in the streelight
and all the colors in the road
I don’t get soaked through at all
But I do get painted into long shadows
and chilly diamond drops
and so rub some ink into a light poem