Rain by Allan Pleaner

Rain is falling on corrugated iron rooftops 

of the tired houses next to Tim’s Scrapyard & Auto

washing the '46 Chevy's rust down the alleyway 

into the gutter. 

There it joins the soapy rinse waters of Nick’s Laudrette

Pitter-patter over the grimy silent sidewalk.

Drenches her long brown hair as she stumbles on her way to

wearily load her soiled sheets.

Heartbroken remnants of Friday's long loving night.

Bourbon then Scotch then beer … or maybe

beer first, then Scotch…? 

Now gusts of wind sweep rain from the east, 

through the cemetery and along worn banks of the river

while she pulls a soft blanket over her shoulders

slowly sipping a warm Bud and inhaling deeply on her Camel plain.

The washing machine porthole

aquarium-like, soapy bubble swirling, flailing, gyrating her sheets.

You can’t just wash it away. 

Thick drops of rain drip from the nose of the statue in the park

Bacchus, all vine-wrapped naked.

She thinks about him, 

The way they laughed and touched and tasted and loved

Then he left at dawn, 

quietly, so as not to wake her.

Will I ever see him again? 

Now, drenching the town's fields and gardens, turning soil to mud

the rain-soaked carcasses of wet scrap metal

glisten under the streetlamp. 

Allan Pleaner is a wood turner, sculptor, collage artist, illusionist and story-teller in the SF Bay area. He has a therapy practice and also builds miniature wooden buildings, mostly weathered depression-era structures. His writings include short-fiction, poetry, memoir, travel-writing and prose.