The nights were spent alone, <br />Evaporating, and now this: not even a knighthood, <br />Estranged from my parents, <br />Vagabonding in one place, jump roping over graves, <br />And the curly hair of the spirits indistinct of color: <br />I have a book published, <br />But I end up working for my awful uncle, making <br />Ten dollars an hour: <br />I drink too much: I love Alma too much, and maybe or <br />Most likely it is that I will die: <br />Maybe it will be in the hurricane season, which will give me <br />A good excuse, <br />So I don’t have to look anymore at the overspent old ladies, <br />And feel guilty for despising them, <br />Or trying to move them along all the quicker; <br />And I can’t hear anymore if it is raining, but it really shouldn’t <br />Matter, since all of the historical forts are locked, <br />And the celebratory fireworks eagerly spent, <br />All of the flatulent tourists sleeping, their cowbells silent in <br />The overprized hotel rooms stocked up against the easy way, <br />If it should ever rain again.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-it-should-ever-rain-again/
