Accumulations

Mar 15, 2008 - 04:26 AM PST

droplets of rain fall in lazy torrents
beading on the window pane
like a languid lingering kiss
familiar and forgotten
as the first chaste peck
lips pursed tightly together
eyes closed like you’ve seen
in the movies and your parents
wedding photos
the first touch
more imagined than felt
like the touch of a hypodermic
needle on your arm
poised and ready
for penetration
but you wince before the cold metal
ever touches your skin
and the few droplets of fluid
plunged forth ahead of time
remind you of the rain
you watch it as it beads on the cold
metal sink
like the water you ran
to wash away the blood
from the self-inflicted gash
in your finger
just wanted to see
how much it would bleed
stoppered the drain
so you could watch it accumulate
drop by drop
the way it fell made you think
of tears
and the fourth of july
if fireworks fell from the sky
but it always seems to rain
on the fourth these days
so you have to stand in the backyard
with sparklers and bottle rockets
hoping the wet fuse will light
humming the star spangled banner
to the rhythm of the rain
bouncing off wet pavement
and thinking about all those
apocalyptic movies
that never realize their promise
of the worlds demise
the same way your own demise
is just a fiction
except that night
when genres merged
on a rain slicked street
in early october
lawns already covered
with bedsheet ghosts
and makeshift gravestones
how they looked
spotlighted in red
as you sat with the steering wheel
crushing your sternum
too sure of the pain
to pay it much mind
only things you aren’t sure of
give you pause for concern
you wondered if it’d rain tomorrow
and when they’d get you out
of the crushed fiberglass
you don’t drive anymore
but rain
bouncing off the windshield
still gives you a moments pause
as you sit at a stoplight
reflecting off wet surfaces
bringing back
the smiling ghost
that kept you company that night
even after they extracted you
from your former honda
but the comforting memory fades
into a man crossing the street
clad in a whale-watching blue
raincoat following a mama duck
and her chicks into a ditch
on the other side of the street
a ball-peen hammer
clutched in his left hand
you saw a movie once
made for tv
where a woman killed
her husband’s lover with a hammer
clumps of duckling-feather blonde
hair stuck to the head
she washed it later
under the faucet in her backyard
they zoomed in on the diluted
blood bursting
on the concrete walkway
reminding you of a splatter
art frisbee
you made at college
and played with in the park
on hot summer days
before it used to rain all the time
and now the only way
you can see a color besides gray
is to open a vein
but you have pills for that
you’re not sure what color though
cause they look gray
like everything else
they even taste gray
you splash the last
swallow of water down
the bathroom drain distracted
for a moment
by how it beads on the cold
porcelain surface