Incongruities of Rainwatching
I love watching rain grayness cooling colors greens no longer talk so loud, and the bricks on that old house on the corner-- their hue rich full-blooded from the rain. I love watching rain looking through my window work spread out before me with my picture of Elvis (lean and nasty-eyed) to wonder at, and if I feel like it a blast of Springsteen-- wounded dreams and pretty girls.
I love watching rain curled up by a crackling fire
kitten at my elbow, but not stuck under the magnolia in the yard of the Buddhist temple electric wheelchair taking on water like the hull of the Andrea Doria. I love watching rain, but not stuck under a damn magnolia because I'm still vain enough to hate how I look in raingear-- like a pup tent on wheels.
I love watching rain from the van at the headlands midnight colors at noon ocean foaming mossy against the cliff's gnarls and crags Such pleasure I take in the spit and hiss the salty stench sweet earth as she cools and renews. I love watching rain sprawled before a roaring fire Courvoisier at my elbow, but not stuck in J.C. Penney's doorway like an oddball abstract sculpture, a pigeon perch in the doorway awaiting the next busload of tourists.
I love watching rain from any well-stocked oasis feet propped upon a pillow, but most especially I love watching rain on the rare occasion I remember machine and flesh lead separate lives And I tilt my face to the blackest cloud until my hair is seal slick and my clothes have to be peeled like the skin from a peach, Then-- I love watching rain as it pounds against my thighs and sings off my elbows: WET