San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly

Jim Babwe

WARM RAIN FEELS WETTER

 

A roofing nail punctures

the right front tire
at a splash past midnight
and it usually doesn't rain
like this,
not around here anyway. 

Angry surf pounds
the beach like
a man
locked out of the house
or maybe he's just trying
to wake up someone who's sleeping.

The half mile walk
means my clothes are soaked
slick to skin
so I'm grateful
it's summer rain
because
warm rain feels better
than cold rain.

Warm rain feels wetter.

The porch light is out
and my first thought says
I need to replace the bulb.

I know there's an extra--
last one in the package
under the silverware drawer. 

I wipe my feet,
open the door,
step inside
where it's suddenly
too quiet.

I find no explanation
in the note
which doesn't say
where you're going
unless Away
is a new city somewhere. 

I'm not sad.

I'm not surprised
about anything. 

At all.

Not even
when the rain stops.

The porch light is fine.