• By Ryan Oliveira


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,

so-called Freedom

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,

In Pitter-Patter-Burgh

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.

#rain #cityliving #pitterpatter #comfort #depression

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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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