he got out at the corner
the meter ratcheted, his wallet now
bare

briskly glided and he wished
he was home but this wasn't
home was mama: ever present
somewhere else

so he sat in his chair
(generous or destructive because
he chose the least-forgiving
as his favorite)
and made a decision

rain-
the bringer of life-
and his beautiful muse.
it always falls, never anything
but falling
and when finally it rises
it's not there
a ghost of a lake
and a spirit from a puddle;

ghost
spirit
rising
from
resting

fall

so

He did.

07/27/2006

Posted on 07/27/2006
Copyright © 2026 Corey Lockaby