Rain Check

The gutters are giving up on the roof,

spitting thick streams onto the concrete floor.

I stand on the stoop, the only real proof

that I’m still the man who lives behind the door.

I watch the oil in the driveway start to bleed,

swirling in rainbows of purple and green.

It’s a slow, steady rhythm that I seem to need,

a way to feel something that cannot be seen.

The steam rises up from the asphalt’s black heat

as the first heavy drops begin their long fall.

I stay until the water reaches my feet,

and I don’t feel like moving at all.