rain

 

He runs a hand through his neatly combed hair
sighs through the steam of his black coffee
and reaches down to mute the sound of jungleland on the radio
The sky is the color of his suit
and countless tiny raindrops play a secret sonata
through a dim clatter on the roof of his chevrolet

A single scarlet spotlight flickers through the windshield wipers
only a few minutes from home now
he's driving past the convenience centers
and he's the only car on the road

An old woman hurries to her car under a floral-print umbrella
her groceries in a paper bag gripped by bony fingers
apples and lettuce and the morning news
a gallon of milk and a package of pre-sliced bread
(the simple white kind you had sandwiches on as a kid)
she closes the door and her husband heads back towards home

He looks back up at the brilliant streetlight
a setting sun in a sky of slate
he turns the windshield wipers off
and watches in silent childlike fascination
as the liquid diamonds shatter across the glass
scattering rubies like marbles across a floor
for a lucid moment he's trapped in a tiny world of metal
of vinyl dashboards and plastic floormats
twenty three squared in dim green light
a pair of matching eyes reflected in the rearview mirror
"dear god, how did i get here?"

Suddenly there are emeralds on the glass
he fixes his tie and drowns his sorrows in classic rock
as the silver machine rolls into town
familiar streets bow their heads in sorrow
old maples cry above the broken sidewalks
he stops at the two-story with the flowerpots on the porch
and follows the spindly pink chalk-trails down the driveway

He barely has time to knock when a chorus reaches his ears
muffled by the glass and wood before him
"daddy's home!"
the door swings inward and he falls to his knees
(his suitcase tumbling over onto the doormat)
so he can see their faces better
the raven-haired cherub with a gap in her smile
(which earned her a quarter last week)
and the shy little sprite with joyous blue eyes
almost as if it was christmas morning

She stands in the hallway with an oven glove
brushing the sandy bangs from her forehead with a smile
radiating the compassion that only mothers can give
even after spending hours in the kitchen
surrounded by pots and pans and dirty dishes
even though the kids turn up their noses at the broccoli
and run for seconds on the blueberry pie

He can't help but laugh a little
when she asks him how he forgot his umbrella
and his beautiful children laugh in wonder at the misty droplets
clinging to his tousled hair

the workday roar fades into the soft hum of a summer evening
and suddenly the weather doesn't matter anymore