Gentle Rain falls gracefully outside
and I am inside watching
it out my window
nobody around
just me and my cats
on the 4th floor of
an apartment building
inside a tiny apartment
filled with newpapers and books
located on Taylor street
across the street from
the red brick housing projects
where the poor remain
wrestling with poverty
and Stan Getz plays slowly
in the background
while the blue grey clouds
languidly go by in the
early afternoon on a Sunday
so I light a wooden pipe
I continue to burn it for
youth never tells me the right time
then my phone rings to
reveal love wearing high heels
so I pour hot wax all over it
and sin becomes pure and honest
that I promise to never let it go
before green skies get darker
spilling out waves of thunder
and Stan Getz plays louder
I get up and run run run
to my door and open it up
and run up the stairs
that lead to the roof
I could still hear the music
it seems to be getting
louder as I walk out
on the wet black tar roof
the sky reaches down
and touches the Sears Tower
I open my mouth and look up
to welcome the rain and it welcomes me too
my long black wavey hair curls up
from the rain and I stick out my arms
and spin off on a Sunday afternoon…
Charles Lara
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-sunday/
