I owe you a March 12th poem. One about rain.
There’s no such thing as gray light
But the rain might care to differ
In the pitter-patter tatter
Of its fingers on my hinges.
Begs for shelter from the storm
Uninvited, still it mourns
In the pitter-patter rat-a-tat
On the window, slow it goes.
The Natives live in Neon
Full of Freon,
From the pitter-patter-putter
When the rain reminds of mothers.
How she held you in the halo
In her holy ghosts of day-old
When you’re cradled in her soul.
But now the City’s somber
Each is One
and Each is Numbered
Count the pitter-patter pats
Like feet scraping ‘cross a mat.
And I am just depressed;
I pop the pills to pace the stress
Of heartbeats pitter-patter-putter
But hearts are lonely ocelots.
We’re all gray light ghasts
In great white ghost towns,
Where the rain persists to drown.
Like the cat that mourns its home
As it refuses to die alone,
I hear pitter-patter-paws,
Invite the rain inside my walls.
And it waltzes, plucks like country
To notes F, A, C, and E
With a pitter-patter-pat
To dab the pool upon my heart.