he stopped hearing the rain
at night because he forgot what it sounded
like what
the difference was between drops striking
his apartment window & the shots
that strike windows but also not
windows he doesn’t care
for raindrops other than the fact
that everyone stays indoors leaving
the streets free for him to
stray & carry the weight of his bad
knee alone under the discolored
clouds resembling leaking noses.
he thought old age would be
like rain
something that streams & pours
floods & cascades suspends drains
crashes builds
overflows saturates
something unavoidable even
indoors & surfaces when you least
expect it.
instead it’s the act
of walking in the rain lugging
the pain of a knee & the weight
of a thousand raindrops burying
themselves deeper into you
among abandoned streets in a silence
that isn’t really there.
each time the man grows tired & walks back
to his apartment full of people wondering
if tomorrow will be the day when
he’s struck in the head
by a leftover raindrop
of course that will ricochet & find
its way back onto the far-off
bleeding streets.