I feed myself.
I listen to the rain falling bright and furious.
Rain remembers its falling for a moment, rippling,
Then forgets itself in the sheeting, sliding, silence.
The sky reflects gray in the windows across the alley.
I know my life is not, and will not be profound
But I adore it anyway –
Books strewn and poorly fed,
Over-thought and occasionally betrayed;
I adore it.
It doesn’t matter that the difference
between myself and the rain
is a matter of a little salt and some organization,
I love my skin and all it contains
Until the rain falls through it.
And I’ll love it even then, if I may.