The Rain

The rain,

no, the Rain,

it comes down like god pissing after a six-pack,

but we are safe inside.

Until we are not safe anymore,

we have responsibilities,

we must meet them,

but first, breakfast.

The pounding of the Rain on the hood of my jacket,

It should be all I can hear – it isn’t,

my music is loud,

It drowns out the Rain.

But I can feel the Rain.

Where there was no stream,

now a stream flows,

streams have become rivers,

and the rivers, well, a new word is needed.

My feet were once warm and dry,

I remember it well,

it was not long ago,

I hope it is not so far away.

Wet tools slip from wet gloves wrapping wet hands,

dark mud and darker skies,

it is everywhere, the water and mud,

and it makes life difficult.

A soggy sandwich under a leaking tarp,

muted conversation,

the end in sight,

for another day.

Fat droplets from tree leaves,

and thin ones from the turbulent skies,

feel equally bad running down the neck,

through a working man’s afternoon.

Eventually the day ends,

or the outdoor part, at least,

and as gear is hung up to dry it is hoped,

that tomorrow will be different.

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I was reading some Bukowski and it made me think I'd have a crack at a poem. I don't think I'm about to become a poet laureate for anywhere any time soon but it was  kind of fun to write. Imay have a try at another sometime.