It's raining in my bathroom
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink.
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink...
It started raining last night right in the middle of my bathroom around 3:00 am. Fat droplets of water hitting the counters, shelves, pictures, Kleenex, my cat and of course, me. I'll tell you now, there is no way to be certain how one will react when it rains indoors, but perhaps the response while standing under a raining ceiling does say something about the said individual.
I didn't move, I did not rush to clean up. I could not see the point in trying to clean when there was no guarantee the rain would end anytime soon.
I felt like Eeyore under the rain cloud, the one that follows him on an otherwise sunny afternoon, because under the indoor rain shower I was neither shocked nor upset. In fact, right up until the rain started the stress from the previous week had begun to manifest itself in bouts of obsessive compulsive behavior and I had found myself rumaging through drawers organizing Q-tips and boxes of Dove soap. In that moment between a long conversation with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and sorting toiletries, it seemd that a rain shower indoors at 3 am was almost welcome, practical even.
Lately I feel that I'm lacking symmetry...I'm sure if you folded me in half, the edges of my paper self would not meet.
But I seek my own remedy...
Indoor rain+white wine+another restless night=poem. The first one I've written in awhile. Very short, and perhaps cliche, with only a pinch of self destruction. I posted this in the community
linebyline, and was given the phrase because of the fear to incorporate in my poem. Nevertheless, a piece of my thoughts circa 3 am. Here goes...
peripherals
I run now
because of the fear that manifests itself in me
Looming, as shadows sometimes do
It is small, larval
I will bury it, and circumvent the very thistles of it’s being
Under my skin are entrails carefully packaged inside
a tarnished shell, this chipped monument
A vessel bound for the crags
Hold my hand stranger, it is early
Too early for you to see me
A fugitive among the living, a void cavity
in a land of beating hearts