Where It Rains

This month of September, a friend of mine and I have decided again to write a poem a day. As with last time, I'll only be posting here the one's a particularly like, but I though you, mysterious reader, might want to know anyway what I'm up to. Please tell me what you think.

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Where It Rains

Beside ruminating car wheels in a splash

into a crowd of puddles, abashed, shaking,

under a shadow of telephone wire, lining

the road I’m walking, hood down, umbrella closed,

next to a cracked parking lot and a rusted truck

that hasn’t budged in weeks,

                                                within the deep

mouth of trees, whimpering as it brushes

against the wind and straggling strangers,

it’s still raining.             Drop by drop

off a drying dog, from the wet whiskers of a beggar

stolid with his soaked cardboard sign at a stoplight,

I can hear its chattering teeth.

                                                I see it spit out of gutters

with sickness, contempt, and a loss for words.

It’s still raining

                         where clothes grip the skin

like frightened hands, and rags of waterfalls, miserable

thin trickles, slide to the bottom of an iron railing.

It’s wet and the strength of the silver fortress sky,

stemming what has fallen for days and what will continue

to fall in hours if not minutes or seconds, is a lie

and I’m one more drop of water stumbling through

the afternoon, down the damp sidewalks of the world.