Monday, April 09, 2012

Smelling Rain - 8

I told you I smelt rain but you laughed
and said that I should visit a doctor.
I smiled and said what if I visited one first
and told him all about you and how idiosyncratic
you are, how your habits are born like rabbits
and how you live in a house with no windows
and doors, with hundreds of rooms and multiple floors.
And I'll tell him inside these rooms live clones
of you, in rooms both empty and full where you
smile and frown and shuffle around, mend a tatty dress,
drink a cup of tea and listen to yet another rendition
of Handel's Messiah. In one room you neglect
the washing and eat mountains of caviare. In another
you let down your hair and let it grow like cobwebs.

I remember the first time I told you I smelt rain
you shook your head and went to crochet
out on the lawn. You said rain would never come but
ir bucketed down. Fuming you climbed a tree and began
a dialogue with clouds as I tried to coax you off your perch.
The clouds talked in a strange language and I felt
lost in Babel as your head craned up and you
answered back in a loud syllabic gargle. Upset, your
words formed darts and threw you back
leaving you covered in bruises.

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