When you defined the rain as ’that which falls’
it meant you only had to blame the weather
for worlds imploding in your wake together—
your subtle perfume: dust, Chanel, and moth balls—
as you enjoyed the stillness of collapse.
But ruin isn’t total; something moved
beneath the rubble, something caught its breath,
pushed out an axil, feeler, fed on death;
for something which had waited, life improved.
It flexes now: a spark across a synapse.
The brown light of the town hall shines on this truth:
the tickets for the 50/50 dance
sell out. Each second Saturday’s a chance
to get right things age buggered up in youth.