Rain Must Come Down Poem by Thomas Bates

The rain must come down, flooding
sidewalks
swelling in gutters
marking time
seconds and minutes counted
in a multitude of droplets.

images of a vast and moisture-less wilderness
sand- swept impressions-
dry sighs
of moments in a camera lens
caught
before
the drop-off of struggling death.

somewhere
a banjo player leans back
two wooden legs lift from the floor, tilted wooden
moment
of a humid saloon.
drink
by drink, the half-sleeping
audiences
gulp down, into submission, into dehydration.

some afternoons, I
could almost feel the clouds
against
my face; Crayon hues,
stars nearly
scraping the sky.

and after all, I do love to be loved.