That New Rain

I know we’ve been pretty happy
With clouds until now
But they’ve been discontinued
All rain must be be planted
In the form of small gray cubes
The little old man
In his powdered blue coveralls
Will place a wet box in your hand
Then snap is fingers
And flash a grin
Unashamed by the disappointment
Of his teeth
You’ll open the box
Fingers slipping on the wet twine
And gingerly slide the damp cube into your palm
Don’t hold it too long
It’ll drip through your hand
If you let it
Drop it in the hole
The one they told you to dig
It sounds like butter
Sizzling on the pan
And that cube spreads out
Saturating the ground
Just like that rain you remember
Without all its unnecessary


About paulgude

Paul Gude writes small books, makes stupid music, draws silly pictures, and does weird things on stage.
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