Only the rut in the desert sand
stops the rain as it runs over the
roof edge and falls straight down
in fast drips.
The tile roof is used to being
dry not wet, hot not cold.
I am neither. It feels like a
less day, not a more day.
But I must admit it is a hot tea
kind of day. Coffee’s long faded.
I’m not hungry yet, but I’m already
I rather think ramen than about
the hurtful things or the worrisome
things that linger in such a way
that I can’t tell a Saturday from a
Thursday. I can’t tell man from
woman or woman from man within.
I’ve always been this way. The
question was always there, I just
didn’t know what it was.
Everything is clearly a blur. Not
feeling how I look; not looking how
I feel. I don’t care about MSG today!
The important things seem to have
run over the edge of my mind, like
the random rain today and left me
chilled, standing in an unresolved
pool; even the hot tea has cooled.
From here, I can see the drops
form on the garage roof. They
form, fill, hang, then drop, slower
I can think about it, but can’t act
on it. Worse, I won’t act on it.
If my faith fills but one drop,
I’ll be okay today. One drop of
grace will be enough to be still.
Still, on a rare day like today,
when the desert sun failed to
appear, I rather think ramen.