in raindrops on tin rooftops
pitter-patter/kerplunk
Running down his windowpane
The glass is weeping;

not he. He is sleeping snug
in his four-poster mahogany bed. Not once
does she cross his head. Her silence
drives down from the sky in hail. Dents

the rails on his fence. Leaving him
a little tense. He swings a baseball bat
at them sending them flying high
into the air. Breaking them

apart. Till the pieces
ricochet off his hard veneer. The sky
fleeced in shaggy clouds. He punches
a hole in it, screaming out loud.