Cozy Is Not the Word

Someone sent a playlist. Rain sounds for focus.

I almost replied with something I'd regret.

My left shoe has been wet since Monday—the locus

of the problem: the inner lining. Still wet

Tuesday when I peeled a sock off

and left it on the tile. It held the shape

of my foot, deflated—soft,

just sitting there. That's the landscape

of rain when you're actually in it. Not a candle.

Not a blanket, not the feeling

you get through glass. The handle

of your umbrella. The ceiling

of the parking garage dripping.

I'm not saying it's awful. I'm bored

of being told it's beautiful. The stripping

wet off everything. The cardboard

smell outside the grocery store.

My sock dried by morning.

I put it on. Got out. Ignored

the playlist. The rain was still going.