We wait for rain, for the scent of slick concrete, rising
into the hot hair, carrying with memories of pain, the blistering heat this
season always brings, relieved briefly, even as we are haunted by the past, you
and silent me, still stirring in the midst of Hollywood fame, marble stars
under foot as we stroll there barefoot, a strains of strange voices, foreign
names, you and me, licking our wounds, a fleet of frustrated shame, the stench
of a city far to far west from our roots, dry as a desert, shimmering in
magnificent sunsets we rarely see this far east, waiting there for rain that
never comes, while here, we feel it, sweeping away the residue if only for
those moments of cloud bursts we never felt so far west.
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