Poem: From Me to Him in Rain that is Fine






	He texts
	about the weather.
	Cues a domino dropped of shops,
	their fronts make way for prows,
		with navy-grey erasing chimneys
		   and pools inches outside below gulfing
                            the building.

	Never a town or a storm
	or a pair's friendship shown – only
	weaving cloud monkeys. 
	Cocking glances at a perplexing now, 
	mowing it or a part
	into a universe flow-ended. 

	He texted
	if I'd seen the Capitol,
	   so our truthy shunting grew replies, 
	every unsociable faux-raging meridian 
	and order of something to suffice 
	for every place that we might call on

	untouched by wet indulgents, Yank screwlooses.
	It's a love chat born aside bars through years.
	Pain of a new word - internminable -
	makes a mind scatter to our struck
	standard from uncracked mouths 
	in search under thumbs: the ribald
	hard-blown, the shower, the spat
	from him to me. From me to him
	in rain that is fine and quenching.


For Mike.

Published by Pat Mellow

Making fewer mistakes than Trump since 2016.

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