Rain Fugue
She finds herself content.
At long last she’s getting the things to which she believes herself entitled –
a fresh start, a private office,
a secretary, reasonably priced housing
a divorce.
As for me, I wear a helmet and a reflector vest when I ride my Vespa at night:
the price of a hit at this solo stage of life a sentence of premature invisibility
prompted by functional incapacity or
dysfunctional capacity amidst visible maturity. Geez…
See what I mean?
Either way, it ain't pretty.
It’s been raining for hours –
eased off some but still at it pumping down even though
the ground is burping up wet bubbles like babies after inhaled bottles
of ricy water.
Do the gods weep for us because we refuse to do so for ourselves or
is this the beginning of an as yet to be announced post-Deluvian age
for which no one’s gathered 2x2s or even second generation iPads, long lasting batteries and, worse,
no one’s built an ark unless you count the Space Shuttle that like an old boat
has it share of leaks and a quirky engine, no way to get there from here and even fewer
capable of piloting it past the horizon.
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