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April Showers.

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Owing to the fact that April is unleashing a fury of tears outside right now, I thought I’d post some poetry about water. Because I can. And because it’s still poetry month.

Hopefully, you’ll take today’s crappy conditions as an excuse to watch a bunch of silly comedies, cheesy romances, or awesome action flicks. Rainy days are meant for movie marathons.
So here you go.

Water, in four parts:

Broken notes on red rubber soles


1 “Notes”

Drip drip drips drop

in pitter patter patterns

on the head of my

umbrella and jar

with chords that

sing from the church

on 10th street.

I can hear the

beat beat beat of

drizzle

spitting disjointedly

on its flimsy black sin,

attached to little metal arms

that unite in my firm fist.

I twirl it like a parasol despite

fast, fuming winds;

slanted mist makes

a mess of my carefully applied

makeup.

By the time

that I reach campus,

I am saturated,

a creature from the sea.

2 “Red”

I could’ve invested in rain boots

that would slosh slosh boisterously

as I tread across lacquer black puddles

that lie like veiled oceans

on the streets I walk to class.

And if webbed feet would

suffice for fire-engine brick bright

rubber, size 10 wide,

I’d rub my toes with glue.

3 “Rubber Souls”

I don’t see fish,

but trash, silky oil,

and myself – a face distorted-

but I am saved before I

sink any deeper because

my soles have been baptized.

4 “Broken”

It’s a wave that builds and builds and builds on itself,

growing and climbing heights no man can touch

with his fingertips, even when stretching on tippy-toes.

Every man feels it, has felt it at one point in his

life. And when it breaks, there’s nothing worse

than knowing

you’ve lost control of the sea.