i am warm and cozy and layered.
i can see the drops now, at night
falling through the lights from parked cars' high beams and
blotting the cracked sidewalks that lead into delis
where silent men lean against crappy carts filled with even crappier red umbrellas.
a drop lands on my cheek, slides quickly down my chin
to the shiny streets.
It's all around.
everyone walks past me and they are soaking wet, sopping,
skipping through puddles.
there! again. my heart skipped. I swear,
some days I want to crow-hop that sucker
into the ocean.
i don't, though. my arm isn't what it used to be.
i would watch it sail through the air, hopeful for its flight;
still-beating, glinting in the hot sun.
that poor thing wouldn't clear the beach though,
never mind the breakers.
i like to imagine it bobbing in the ocean, riding those low waves, but
there it would sit in the sand, drying out, sinking.
all I'd have left is that raw, open space in my chest.
some days I wonder if that happened, if
maybe I hung you out to dry,
the muscles between my ribs:
tightropes across canyons.
maybe they are slowly closing together
over that space I can't see,
keeping it warm, keeping it ready.
other days it's in my back,
in the back of that space.
It curls under my shoulder blades and
settles in for a few days.
It stretches out, crosses its ankles, asks for a club soda.
on those days I try to be as still as possible, because maybe
wings are growing there.
maybe they're just starting to poke through --
like grass under the heavy snow.
like the brightest of stars burning through these february rain clouds.
i pull back my hood
and look up at the sky;
it is pouring.
Cold, Delicious Rain.