Infuriating,
rain hammers on my hat-less scalp,
trickles down my neck,
on down my back.
I curse the trespassing liquid,
without imagination, originality,
but bolstered with tangled anger.
Emotions have to form a line today,
and like unruly children they push and shove.
How will he sleep tonight?
In the bed he found his dead mother in?
Who will hold him?
As his childhood withers,
after just seven winters.
Some of the rain is fake,
and trickles onto my lips,
tasting of salt.
Crying in the rain,
a trick all men learn.
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