abysmal social poverty

i wanted to be right as rain even

when the wildfires pulled the earth

from seam to seam: even when your

houses went up in flames and the candles

didn't burn but melted piteously into

their pools of oil and wax.

i told you once of a time when the lonelies

crept into my aching bones and my head

was filled with the sadness that falls

like a damp black curtain... even the

country peach passion of a steaming cup

of tea wasn't the remedy for the somber

hued silence.

and here is a question for this age and the one we

can only find behind our shoulders-- is the patter

on the ridged tin roof enough to keep you company

when your lights go out and your books end

with a final punctual whisper?

is it the salve for your blistered arms when

you fall asleep in the blinding whiteness of

the cruel summer sunlight? and no one bothers

to wake your slumbering self or at least put

the sunscreen in your resting hands?

is there a simple solution to the absence i feel

in this abscess--this abyss. abysmal... amiss.

i'm sorely incomplete in this thunderless

rainstorm--the silence, oppresses and represses

my cries.. but my tears mingle with the rain

and i can hide behind the weather once again.