Crying in the Rain

The funny things about crying in the rain
is that you can’t tell which is which.
I’m sitting on the porch
under an overflowing gutter
with a clogged downspout
as a sheet of water pours over me,
late-summer thunderstorm washing away
the mourning.

A miserable yellow dogs trots down the sidewalk
giving me an incredulous look and shake of the head.
I hear the intermittent chirp of a baffled bluejay
interspersed with the splatter, splatter of raindrops on asphalt,
the occasional sound of patent leather through mud puddles
tells me the story of comings
and goings
from the house behind me.

I hate the rain,
but I hate being in there more
dodging platitudes and platters of sandwich meat
and if I see one more goddamn broccoli casserole
I think I’m gonna shoot somebody.

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