Man Dressed like a Forest
Finally, rain is expected Wednesday.
It’s been weeks since we had a drop.
The grass is dry & brittle
like a nicotine stained moustache;
it scrunches with each step
— the sound tells me i live.
There is one here dressed like a forest.
His thirst must be slaked.
Hear the hoarseness in his throat,
the exaggerated gulp, to shake out
the crux from his paragraphs
—the thirst tells him he lives.
Rain came, hasping to Thursday.
The man dressed like a forest
still pressed, drily by time. The sun came,
i mowed the lawn & smelling
an effigy of sun in the pores
of my skin it dawned on me,
why i won’t