Storm Drain

The open street smells like a thunderstorm.
I’m not sure where he went
or where I’m going
or why I’m standing here on the damp sidewalk,
watching the sun creep up on us.

It feels good,
like I should’ve done this a long time ago,
like this is what I’ve been missing my whole life.

I want to come back.
And I want it to rain,
even just a little.

I want to see the way it falls
and the way he looks upward
with his mouth wide open. 
 

Love to write

VT

YWP Alumni

More by Love to write

  • Self-Portrait at 18

    I know it’s a bad title 
    but I’m carving these words 
    out of my compacted mind. 
    I’m trying to mix the mud of my thoughts 
    into something more coherent 
    than to do lists and quiet 
  • Authorized Entrance Only

    There is no twilight in the city. 
    Only time we collect in our mouths, 
    sun peeling color off the streets,
    rats skittering down sidewalks.

    The fire escape has been painted gold.
    It shimmers at night, 
  • Ellipse

    The record down the hall sounds like the static of space, drawn out and fading, as if a comet streaked by, leaving a trail of sound in its wake.