Candy Rain
 
Rain has to qualify, this one
won't make the cut.
Tickling doesn't count,  I whisper
around  an untouched pillow.  Gentle
was for hippies.  Quaint
term to google.  Oh, but it is sweet
to lie comforted by your refusal
to give in to the urge to pound.  
So good, you turned in your drum.
Sometimes play brushes,  I hear,
when not filling in.  Tickling
your night gig?   Feel you
on my skin, flesh feathers
make me entertain the hope
that you, at least, will stay
your sweet self.  Only tickle
until I blush.   Feed me,
sweet rain.  Hum something silly.
Hum Purple Rain.  I cracked
the window.  Slip in and we'll pretend
to be here for each other.  Have all
the sugar we want.  No cavities.
Tickling never turns to torture,
thunder is only air clapping
far, far away.   Closing my eyes.
Even smell sweet.   Come here.
 
 

©) Phyllis Jean Green,  2006