Seconds click away, three to a breath

since the kiss on the cheek that never happened,

the hug goodbye I’ve imagined.

The rains are coming. Black sheep in the sky.

If the crops fail, I’m not to blame

I tell myself. If the brakes fail,

I’m not to blame. The rains come

like a speeding car and level me again,

like bad news in the morning.

Sometimes, chickens will look up at the

precipitating sky to see where the rain comes from,

and drown before they can decide.

The ones that see the clouds

bunched up like ink soaked cotton balls,

see water vapor condensing

on dots of dust and dive bombing them,

liquid kamikazes. They look back to their feed,

and avoid becoming a statistic and are eventually eaten.

Sometimes, when blue and red light mixes

there’s no regal purple, but only blue and red.

If the brakes fail, I’m not to blame.

The rains are here, they hang like burnt out

Christmas lights from the hospital roof’s overhang.

The rains are here, I’m not to blame.