The rain fell cold,
running through the streets
in gleeful little rivers.
I ran into the wet daylight,
throwing my arms up like bridges
to let the silver drops
make highways to my neck.
Did I think the rain,
those marvelous little spheres,
were endowed by our Creator
with a spiritual Dial Soap,
lathered by angelic hands,
to cleanse away the pain
that clung hotly to my soul?
Maybe I did.
But there was no one there
(anymore)
to gently break to me the Truth,
tell me that pretty things aren't real
(never were)
and warn me importantly
that a cold rain will give me (p)neumonia.
I was ignorant, you see,
of all these wisdoms.
So I stood there, smiling up
at the unseen owners
of the kind, lathering hands.
3 comments:
Good writing, althought it's noticably different from your more recent poems. The first 7 lines paint the scene well using especially effective and poetic descriptions. Why is the "p" in "pneumonia" in perentheses?
Well, as you pointed out, it was written why I was younger, so there are some little burrs in it. (p) is there because it continues the repetition of parentheses and because it has to do with a relevant but private matter. Some editions of this poem don't have the () around the p for that reason.
Thank you for continuing to visit! You are my hero.
I'm not a hero. Not the way you wanted, master.
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