I'm sorry, rain, I can't hear you.
You trickled off at the end of your
Diatribe. What's gotten into you?
You wet everything like it's yours.
When I need you, you're never there for me.
Certain days, and I would never call them mine,
Certain days, the sun looks down so kindly at me,
These days, the sunny, I'd never call them mine.
I want to stay inside, to be away from them,
That's what you're there for, rain, so they
can't get at me. I'm not one of them;
I've spent my life insisting this. They
fend little rooms beneath their umbrellas. We
should stick together, rain and me. We.