Waterlogged

It isn't a cleansing or soft-misted thing.

It’s a cold, heavy slap against the side of the face.

I’m trying to walk while the grocery bags swing

and the clouds turn the street to a charcoal space.

The paper handle gives way with a rip

and the oranges roll toward the mouth of the drain.

I feel the wet fabric start to cling to my hip,

just a man getting soaked in the teeth of the rain.

Inside the plastic, the loaf of cheap bread

is turning to sponge, a dull shade of slate.

There’s no poetry here, just a chill in the head

and the mud on my boots as a permanent state.