Shiny onyx paved streets that shine
like oil
kaleidoscope reflections of topaz gems
yellow lamplights tossed from windows
makes me warm
inside.
Lullaby metronomes count water
droplets, clepsydra down the side of the house,
this eave, my gutter
fills, pours this bass beads across paving stones
reminiscent of a game of puddle hop-scotch
I count the treble,
it answers the hydraulophone
inside me.
That musty smoke that lingers like dye
in the sky, leaking out of rooftop chimneys,
house pipes blow and issue
a rescue signal,
for those inside.
Countless poets have captured this in smaller
rain barrels commonly called buckets.
We lost some along the way,
which accounts for the change in overall volume,
by composition, ice is also vaporous.
Drops do both ways.
Nobody cared,
these were not the ideal conditions for thirst
or poetry,
water was everywhere, like supply versus demand
as far as they could see,
there was no end
to verses.
Image credit By English: thesandiegomuseumofartcollection (Flickr) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
