When it says it’s going to rain
I imagine myself accompanied by lemon ginger tea and Bukowski,
The rain sounding of the contradictory company of solitude,
a rhythmic and calm tapping,
I imagine I am lapping it up off the windowpane like Bukowski might his whiskey.
The mist, gray like a cat’s fur, rubs me just as I would the same fur
I imagine I am the cat for a moment
stretching out my back
making a lower case “n” with my body before falling
through the carpet
to sleep

I have to apologize for hating the sun sometimes
Too many days of sunlight is too many days of being exposed
I think it’s my pores inhaling,
letting the small sorrows of the world in
the types of things people don’t want to carry around in the sun-
change, rattling in a homeless man’s cup
unpaid bills, envelopes like mouths
an abandoned red jacket in the armpit of a city,
blocking the gutter from letting the brown water
through to the other side

Too many days of sunlight makes me want to unzip my skin
and wear it inside out.
My ankles sweat
I want to hack off my feet.
Too many days of sunlight is like the adjective “nice.”

So
when it says its going to rain, but it doesn’t
it’s hard for me to walk
and I try to lick water
off the windowpane
but my tongue can’t reach
like a dust particle, it gets stuck in a sun ray
rams itself against the glass
like a snake’s head against a cage.