Rainy Season

If love has a history it is best

recalled after the thunder and

lightning leave, not to come again,

and you’re alone in a small close,

room, warm and dry and listening

to the hiss and damp outside

and praying for some reason

that this moderation will rule the

night and allow you to sleep

listening to car tires parting

puddles outside with a sexual

hesitancy that sounds for all

the world like old pages being torn up.

FG  6/10/2013

All rights reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood.

Although I often wake up thinking about poetry, my real process happen around 4 o’clock when I sit outside and watch the clouds, birds and the vermin of the tall grass. I mention this only because I was sure I was going to rewrite the poem today, but when I reread it, I liked it anew, so no rewrite.  I call this my Duck Soup theory of poetry composition.  Chunky has spent the day spray-painting Boom’s new-to-her scooter. She’s been sanding with a fingernail file, spraying with two cans of color.  “Bet your sister would be surprised I can do this,” she said.  Probably, I think, but the Marx brothers less so.