Rain is a forgotten art
in this town
and so when the dark
din of the falling
sheets wakens me
in the middle of the night
as it roars outside
my bedroom window
I listen and I look.
What am I searching for,
I ask myself as the sky plays
its water music?
Am I seeking a bridge
across the chasm of
the empty marriage bed?
The sweet Braille of letters
forming words
that will earn
my daughter's love?
Or am I looking for a way
to help my father remember again,
or perhaps a prayer for the erasure
of the evil inside my mother's lungs that,
even now, may be ticking off
her final days?
Or could I be looking for a door
leading back into that happy home
where the gap-tooth girl sits patiently
(still lonely and hurt),
but forgiving and open-armed.
Sing, rain, sing to me
and, in your music,
remind me why I'm staring
deep into the soul of
your steady, silver song.
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