by Kevin T McEneaney
Rainy afternoons are sometimes a plague
on motivation, imagination,
and blunt practical considerations.
That dripping from gutters and eaves remains
depressing, gloomy, caustic annoyance
when it drips inside one’s collar or shoe.
Nothing poetic about dull, gray skies—
not even a short nap will cure your mood.
In childhood I loved to float sticks by curbs:
rushing-gurgling rainfall down a street slope,
but that sense of simple wonder has gone
to be replaced by practicality.
While I no longer stomp in street puddles,
life still appears to have many riddles…
