make me a poem out of the rain
and when the droplets ooze down
the sides of the covers
of my favorite novels, clinging to walls
as unorganized as they were
when first put there,
i will write you back with ink and salt.

so as i was there that day,
out of focus, you were too,
out of thought, you ran across the room
to say goodbye to a dust cloud, a cutout
of where i had been
and then you sat down there, poem in hand
unsure of what to do next, or yourself.

the subway tram was unusually fast
it sped across continents in seconds
derailed itself, almost, from reality
and passed me by when
my thumb was clearly visible
when my suitcase, clearly empty
toppled from gravity’s little game that it played alone.

i won’t torment you with postcards,
i’ll try not to call at inconvenient times
trust me, the last thing i’ll do,
is make you a poem out of the rain
and tie it to a pigeon’s dying leg
for you to see –
you dyslexic monster;
i love you.