I’ve gotten used to the rains:
the kind that pants,
that sweats, that stains.
Plastic poncho biking birds,
monitor lizards enjoying a swim in the drain.
The tepid stance of a security guard,
his moist lips speaking words
in a listless refrain.
Before the forge of iron,
the flash, the quench,
the quiet way I
need not explain.
Dull days pull me close with
their drip, drip, drip;
the widening circle’s gain.
Mahjong tiles in a pile,
blessings for the daily grain.
The soft way strangers share shelter,
make offering together,
and wait until the downpour loses its arm wrestle
with the sky, to grudgingly concede the season’s victory—
but one not likely to remain.
Cover Art: Constantin Roucault





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