Poetry

The Pride Before, 18 (231.)

Rainfall, slick and sudden,
or not,
if you’d looked at the clouds.
Grey, pensive, ready to speak;
short conversation
to wet these hard streets.
Now their appetites are whetted,
and their blades prepped for chopping.
Go slow with soft tires,
or these friends,
the streets and the rain, they’ll
conspire to consume you.
I’ve been a melodramatic liar:
I love the rain, and I
welcome it into every fiber
of my being, and
my outfit.

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