In From the Rain

movingfinger

Nights are crazy when it rains. It doesn’t snow very much here; I can’t guess
how bad that would be. I am usually here rain or shine; I am too old to be
sleeping outside. They call me gramps here. I like that. I never had any
children let alone grand children. I never had any parents; it all seemed so
foreign anyways. I wasn’t always like this; there was a time when I could
have had kids. I don’t like the rain, though. It seems to have rained a lot
this year. It is raining hard tonight; even the crackheads have made their
way in. I’ve got a cot at least; though, I have a feeling I won’t get much
sleep tonight.

There have already been several fights. Me? They don’t bother with
me. I can never sleep with all that ruckus, though. I am old; I need my
sleep. There are only three reasons why people fight here: food, drugs, and
booze. It isn’t very complicated; some people have them, some people have
no way to pay for them. Everyone needs something; I don’t bother much for
drugs and booze, they always leave a bitter taste. I’m much fonder of food.
It is raining tonight, though. There is never enough food when it rains like
this. There is never enough food in general. The soup is watery and the
bread is stale. It warms the stomach, though, and it does edge the hunger.

I remember the streets; the trashcan buffets and the maggots. I was a
young thing then. I could handle the rain. I still remember watching it soak
through the cardboard and slowly sink into my bones. That was when I
sought seclusion in my regrets, before I came to terms with my life. I can
remember the rain warming against my skin, heated by blistering blood of a
man with too many people to blame. I blamed just about everyone; it was
easier then facing myself. I blamed my bosses for firing me, the economy for
forcing them to. I blamed my wife for leaving me; the void my parents never
filled. Late at night, when the shivers set in, I blamed God; I still do that
sometimes, when it rains.

When I was a kid, in the orphanage, I used to love watching the rain roll
down my window. How it formed different branching conduits until it reached
the sill and fell towards the pavement below. Then I would think of a drop of
rain, falling from wherever rain fell, and its journey down the storm drains to
the sewer. I can relate to that drop of rain, shuttled towards a fate mingled
with refuse. I used to picture that drop of rain finding its way to a river and
then to the ocean. I hope death is like the ocean: broad, clean, and free of
limitations.

I once wanted to be a poet, you know? I’ve had plenty of years to try.
I used to write poetry all the time--I haven't now for many years; that was
when a poet could still make a decent living. I always liked Kenneth Patchen;
I was enrolled in his street corner college. You learn a lot on the streets, he
knew this. Accordingly, I wrote many poems under the constant metronome
of relentless rain. I guess in the end we are all fascinated by that which
plagues us.

Being Enlightened

movingfinger, you've moved me! Some of this reminds me of what my Dad may write, if he were a writer and not just a drinker.

"and I wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain..."

Thanks for sharing and I really liked this piece a whole bunch! It hits close to home and stirs up a lot of emotion and that's just what great writing should do, IMHO.

movingfinger

thanks a lot, lately i have been trying to immerse myself in different characters. Kind of an exercise, mostly for fun.