Punctuates

The rain first falls wishful,
                       wanting more.
More than the sidewalk,
more than the gutter, more than the elementary
school blacktop
empty now of lanky players.

It falls wistful
        like
      a grandmother breathing,
                       yearning
    for marshes; dry, praying
                               prairies;
forgotten ghost town
forests.

Lacking these,
              the rain jockeys
for attention, pounds
              the storm
              takes the city siege,
                     sends drops down
in droves,
     driving citizens toward safety.
     
People rush awkwardly for cover;
            hurrying
though careful of the slippery pavement,
and the brimming puddles.

The murky morning,
warning enough for fools,
clouds
constructing mood,
          though most paid no mind, ignored
the smattering, rolling roars,
distant but close enough to hear.

Now the rain grows into rhythm,
                                               heckling
with her timing and her beat
                       all
unlucky souls huddled under quagmire
and awnings.
A few brave pedestrians
with their umbrellas and their purpose
march on through the magic
         happening
between the cracks
      where the soil silkens.

The people
befuddled by the weather
though it has run for eons on such
cyclical
                   systems.
The people with their gear, lamenting
frizzing hair
like moisture is akin to electric shock.
The writers
            isolating in their safe house
coffee shops, penning sulky
           stories,
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
                  peeking out
                            bespattered
windowpanes,
huffing, checking watches,
                                  wondering
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.
The rain
       respects this - at least they thirst.
Their counterparts across the way only know
                                    of hunger
and not a thing of pain.

The rain ceases razor pelt, falls short
        and punctuates.

The Sunday Whirl

What I Need

Gray suits me and I need you, baby.
             These days of sun
                                   strike
waken me
   and I find myself in need.
                       I want to
bask in sweet nothings and talk for hours,
                            hear your voice.
                                              I've had enough of Shakespeare's sonnets,
Melville's
musings,
Eliot's enigmas. I'm craving simple, lounging dawn-to-dark with television, treats.
   I'm weak.
        Weak without
you
and I need you, baby.
The commonplace, I long for, long nights at your place,
                                                                          please.
I'm falling short of words, not a thing to say.
I'm light and easy, healthy, waiting on your laugh,
                                                              relishing, enraptured by your
captivating superfluity,
                 silenced by your
flourished speech, patiently I'm missing you, desire dilating.
      I want to
              take a back road,
get lost in your gaze, marry in the morn.
             I've had enough of me.  I need some more of you.


Imaginary Garden With Real Toads