old maid marge never loses a single drop of rain
leaking thru the roof
none will stain the wood grain floor
she spins a million puddlebowls
each drop will plop plang and pling with planned precision
she likes to sing along
old maid marge keeps tidal waves in jars
angry stormspells, unrelenting and fermenting
old maid marge turns water into whiskey
old men drowning in parked cars paralyzed by old guitars
old dogs play dead on spinster rugs
as storms bang against the paint-peeled world
old winds blow thru broken windowpanes, old books blown open
flipping random pages, old voices singing: armageddon!
armageddon!
god himself screaming:
marge!
we need more jars!
rain for the cities and the plains
rain for the little desert warbler
rain like razor blades in cascades of liquid rage
rain to tame fire, rain to wash the scars, rain to swamp the graves
rain for cain
rain of abel
rain for thirsty puddles
rain for the thane and rain for the rogue
rain for getting naked
old maid marge plants watermelon in her weathered garden
she likes to watch water grow, sells them by the barrel
old maid marge sits like marble sculpture praying
a birdbath in a grove
the water in the bowl seems somehow blessed
is the same rain that falls everywhere
cup your hands to catch some
and exist
note: going to sit on this one for a minute, something still doesn’t seem right
jalopy dreams 