The rain first falls wishful,
More than the sidewalk,
more than the gutter, more than the elementary
empty now of lanky players.
It falls wistful
a grandmother breathing,
for marshes; dry, praying
forgotten ghost town
the rain jockeys
for attention, pounds
takes the city siege,
sends drops down
driving citizens toward safety.
People rush awkwardly for cover;
though careful of the slippery pavement,
and the brimming puddles.
The murky morning,
warning enough for fools,
though most paid no mind, ignored
the smattering, rolling roars,
distant but close enough to hear.
Now the rain grows into rhythm,
with her timing and her beat
unlucky souls huddled under quagmire
A few brave pedestrians
with their umbrellas and their purpose
march on through the magic
between the cracks
where the soil silkens.
befuddled by the weather
though it has run for eons on such
The people with their gear, lamenting
like moisture is akin to electric shock.
isolating in their safe house
coffee shops, penning sulky
adding for affect a necessary storm,
like their minds
are individual nations unsurpassed
and can only thrive at selective span
and far away from others.
The people feigning casualty
walking slow like they don't care.
The stuffy, puffy business folk
huffing, checking watches,
if they can still make lunches.
And just across the downtown street
of the high rise buildings
sit the sleazy bars
where patrons come rain or shine.
Some weathering the deluge
just to get their whisky, rum, their gin.
respects this - at least they thirst.
Their counterparts across the way only know
and not a thing of pain.
The rain ceases razor pelt, falls short
The Sunday Whirl