Volume

The rain came down and I turned the volume high,

reached for the dial like I always do.

Six months of this—the moment the sky

breaks open, I fill it with something new.

The button's worn smooth where my thumb

presses the same gesture again.

You can see the habit, the hum

of trying to control the rain.

Yesterday I noticed what I was doing—

my hand moved without thought.

I realized: this is how I'm coping,

with the small rituals I've bought.

The button smooth as a river stone,

worn by months of trying to own

the falling, by turning myself up loud

so I don't hear the uncontrollable crowd.

Still, when the rain comes, I reach

for the dial. Still, I try to preach

control to myself, still I pretend

the noise I make won't end.