Just Wet

They talk about the rain, like it's some kind of,

you know, cleansing. Or a mood.

It's just wet. It's just a slick, gray film

over everything.

Stepped out, a fresh coat from the cleaner's crisp,

and right into it. An ankle-deep trap.

My cheap pleather boots, immediately useless.

Squishing. A constant, small, indignity.

The streetlights blur, not pretty, just

diffused and weak, like some bad watercolor.

It's not gentle. It's just cold and drips,

and smells like exhaust and concrete.

And my socks are soaked.