A wet day

 

I stay inside,

inside myself.

Raindrops leave

perfect rings on the sand;

BB King sings

with his lips in a perfect o

but that’s not

what I want to say.

A child never spoke,

not in a year

except once

to say no.

I thought about that

and surmised

his parents

had left him short.

Rain magnifies

the grey of clouds.

The electric wires

sag;

yes, and on days like this

I remember.

What I remember most:

a gable end

when a window was

my world.

That boy never smiled,

not once that year.

Green, vibrant in rain,

but  chilly,

encages

but seems infinite.

The oyster catchers move along

but nothing changes;

I drop the magazine

pick up the laptop

and the rain

pressing harder against the window;

I will read the magazine;

he refuses to look up.