The Rain On The Concrete Poem by matthew broxton

Carry a flame,
across the street,
place it by a shop door.
where we shall meet.

Write a sonnet in chalk,
on a pavement,
an urban romance of sorts.
Hanging flowers,
from a lamppost,
the rain arrives
all to no avail.

Sell my story,
to the backstreet press,
I'll go a decrepit church,
to confess.

Send an email,
to a far- off land,
I'll make a home for us in the Blackpool sand.

The rain arrives,
cursed, I am!
dragged beneath the earth.

Reading Neruda's words,
to the lover in this battered mind.
Everytime she gets close,
the rain pours again.

Yet I am not a loser,
in the great scheme of things,
I may not be shopping in the quarter
for an engagement ring.

It's just one of life's dropped stitches,
in the tapestry I endeavour to weave.
Nothing is concrete,
I just don't know.