Rain, and rain, and rain. The bannister
is sticky, and damp spreads through the basement.
The yard’s a rice paddy. The driveway is a pond.
I’ll stock it with carp and sit beside it
to drink wine (watered more by the minute),
watch the clouds where the moon used to be,
and write poems that drip down the page
and bleed into the gutter.
I like what there is of this one (as a rough draft), but it needs more. I think.