The morning is wet
this morning, like ten thousand marbles
fell to the ground, dispersed
and turned into water
in all the low places.
My feet, already, like prunes,
soaked to the bottom
of the too-thin soles on my worn out,
old boots, it’s still dark;
the dense, choking clouds
tell the story,
wind and wet -
a tiny black cat walking across the street,
at fifty yards from here
looks like a lizard creeping, a footed snake slithers
until it disappears into the belly, the gerth
of a near-parked four by four, underneath
it growls, hisses, this cold wetness,
pouring hunger deep, insatiably
I wonder if there will be tomorrow
and, yes, if even today has a chance,
for the sun still
shows no sign of waking
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