from Wine In A Coke Can
Out of the shapeless, eroding roadkill elevated thousands
of dandelion seeds. They floated through a light
so young it looked like a Polaroid found in the attic
of my dead grandmother. The small dog in the yard felt like
a god drinking from the birdbath and the birds just hovered
there singing the broken songs of afternoon. This was how
you got your name, when the clouds delayed and the weather
embraced its color. I was the rain over Ohio, watering the April
shoulders of the homeless. The trees loved that Tuesday near the end,
when the sprinkler was left on during that big thunderstorm
and the neighborhood cats all retreated beneath the rust seduced Toyota.
They sat quietly and licked their wet paws like Presidential stamps.