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