Rain Must Come Down
The rain must come down, flooding
swelling in gutters
seconds and minutes counted
in a multitude of droplets.
images of a vast and moisture-less wilderness
sand- swept impressions-
of moments in a camera lens
the drop-off of struggling death.
a banjo player leans back
two wooden legs lift from the floor, titled wooden
of a humid saloon.
by drink, the half-sleeping
gulp down, into submission, into dehydration.
some afternoons, I
could almost feel the clouds
my face; Crayon hues,
scraping the sky.
and after all, I do love to be loved.
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Comments about this poem (Rain Must Come Down by Thomas Bates )
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