I wish I had a poem for a rainy day
when the raindrops pelt against the metal
of the AC and the hum of a car's engine is
the only sound breaking the day's silence.
I should be dreaming of sleep or sleeping with
dreams or writing to Olga wondering what types
of stuffed animals she collects.
Maybe rainy days are only wistful things for dreamers
and poets? Maybe I need a Diner in my life and a highway
to leave it near. Life can be mysterious like a sudden phonecall
when you're thinking if Russia is closer than Mars and if parts of
Canada are really south of the United States?
I wish I had a poem that was as blue as your eyes
or as quiet as a raindrop
If not I'm going to have to invent one.