there is a roll of thunder like a timpani opening for an orchestra tuning up; the rain that was falling softly is now in a rush to see the earth and as its intensity grows there is a tinkling of bells--a confused ice cream truck puttering down a street somewhere in the neighborhood, an agitated set of windchimes, or the Great Beast Upstairs playing with his child piano with the colourful keys, alternating red yellow green blue purple orange in between the moments of moving around the furniture in his living room... he pushes his couch closer to me, his coffee table, his suede ottoman, and they all result in this great noise, but we have problems ohyes, Great Beast... because I can feel your rainspray coming in through these windows that do not close all the way, and while a refreshing feeling it is, I doubt my electronic hardware feels the same way

i think of you when it rains..

and you could honestly mean any one of a few people, but in this case it is you, sir--you who is not around this year to defy state-mandated warning and shake your fist at the sky as it falls down on your mad smile and mad eyes, cursing and welcoming in the same bellowed thought--my father, washing over the line between fact and fictional character, i will see you with your yellow raincoat (the one that was covered in squirmy bugs when i cleaned out your trailer, the one that smelled like death) billowing out behind your motorized wheelchair in the slantways rain that pierces like an arrow, cruising like a sunny day, till the sidewalk ends

(let's throw on your purple wide-brimmed mock-velvet pimp hat to garner a little more attention. i think you look wonderful.)