035

For more reasons than I have words to list, below is a rough draft of a poem, sans title.
    (Note: “Shitty First Drafts” by Anne Lamott applies to poetry, too):

        (Drafts to come)

Tomorrow makes rain for
four days.

Endless white noise
filling street edges and
shoe holes,

reminding you what the world
would sound like
if you could only play
one note.

But all the rain
reminds me of as she tin-on-tin
whispers (the rain is a she,
you know)
is what I have to do
today:

work
bank
store
write

I only wish she would ask me first.