Tuesday Morning In The Rain

Thu 01 February 2001
By John Mark Schofield in Poetry

Rain falls with a knife’s intensity
and unity of purpose.
I am wet.
I stand in the middle of this barren world.
This ocean of mud.
I feel the rain on my cheeks
and see it on my glasses
as I look up at the sky,
and feel it drip drip dripping
off my hair and nose and cheeks
as I look down
at the mud eating my feet.

I spit ants from my mouth
in the sweaty jungle night.
As shots hit trees
I burrow down down
like a crab settling into sand;
making a living grave
just my size.

From the bed of this dirty pickup
I see spread out before me
fields so steep they look almost vertical
overlooking the gentle, fertile valleys.
A map of property rights
and historical trespass
done in green fields and brown roads
and draped on bones
of rock and dirt.
The sky looks like rain.