Rain

 

 

The thunder rolls in like a truck,

barreling through space, then silence.

Another boom. Kaboom. A monsoon.

 

The thunder augurs rain, a sibilant sound,

the drip of the shower, the knob turns

until it cannot turn anymore.

 

Outside my window is a plish,

plash, plop, a "pl" sound —

isn’t "pleurer" the French verb "to cry?"

 

Now the rain is heavier, sounds

like wind, wild and whipping slantwise

onto the street, a white, wet noise.

 

If you’re talking to your psychiatrist,

the sound will drown out your voice.

The rain cries louder than you do.

 

 

 

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