wet

rain comes down as if God lost someone.
like i should expect to see shut-eyed orangutans
and pot-bellied tribesman stalking dinner
outside my window; water beading-up
on their slick straight bangs.

but i dare not rise from pillowed comfort
to separate the hanging sliced privacy
to bolster my suspicions.

instead, i lay like stones
that are perfect for skipping,
while God uses window sills and wet
to send monday morning morse code.