Heavy rain falls on my Sunday laundry ritual like a deluge, inside and out, a
deep chill rising up from my bones and I can't get warm from, needing to rub
against somebody to generate fire, the way boy scouts do with twigs, though you
can't get fire from wet wood or old matches, and so I huddle in this doorway
and wait for the storm to pass, the flick of drops pecking at the rim of my hat,
at my face, at my eyes, smearing the world, confusing me with images of what is
or what I want to be, the rain against me, no umbrella or memory can protect me
from, needing a body to rub against, to Kindle a fire I know his long dead,
stir up with hope of heat, enduring the rain and the pain of memory long gone
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