Road in the Rain

What if I stood on the road in the rain
and looked down the line of white fences,
and what if I stood on the road in the rain
and listened to the palms, palms, palms shake?

And what if I stood on the road in the rain
and ran into the drain, a peachy kind
of stain amid the water and the salt, and the sand,
and the macadam, the crushed gravel, the concrete,

the ants and the spiders, the butts, the crut—
then what? Just a grid of water,
each drop a body of water, each drop becomes
a vein—the rain is only veins—each drop becomes

a body, crawling on the ground, seeking something
it put down a long time ago. It seems everywhere,
this thing, this childish thing, it seems a shovel
or a rake, it seems the dirt dug down to the stars,

it seems the water surging out the gutter,
it seems the clover turned to kelp in a wave,
it seems the lawn is a jungle in a winged gaze.

Just listen to the rain. All is numerical—addition,
multiplication: Three plus four equals five plus six—
no ma’am—but fifty-six is seven eights: eight plus
eight plus eight plus eight plus eight plus eight

plus eight, and one, two, three, six, twelve, twenty-four, 
forty-eight, ninety-six, one-hundred ninety-two,
three-hundred eighty four, seven-hundred sixty-eight.
It seems I made a mistake a long time ago. Listen

to the gutters flow, the gutters flow, the gutters flow.
And what if I stood on the road in the rain
because memory is an impossible thing,
because everything falls and drains, and again,

what if I stood on the road in the rain
because I had something to tell you, 
and what if I stood on the road in the rain
because why or what else is there to do?

MB 2009

What if I stood on the road in the rain
and looked down the line of white fences,
and what if I stood on the road in the rain
and listened to the palms, palms, palms shake?