on a gray wet sunday afternoon
the clouds seem to shorten
the distance between
earth and heaven;
they narrow the time
between dust
and star-lit memories


on a gray wet sunday afternoon
when i entomb myself
with scotch and reminiscences
it’s not uncommon
for me to catch you
looking in my window
soaked to the bone
with your mud-caked
blond hair dripping
across a powder pink blouse
that never was
really you

i struggle not to blink
but when i do
i find myself wondering
what always frightened you off
my abruptness
or some damned rainbow
on the growing horizon?

it is said
that the dead
sleep especially well
during the day
so they can party all night
but i know
that sometimes
they begin early
on gray wet sunday afternoons