THE RAG MAN AND THE RAIN

You can hear it but cannot see

Yet the sounds are there to tickle your ear

On nights like that I’m reporting here

When the spatter, chatter, the sound of rain

As it came, it did, in dark, heavy, laughing drops

And beneath clouds hidden by a frothy gloom so dismal stark

The Rag Man pushed his cart slowly forward in the rain,

His wooden barrow dripping as it rolled on wooden wheels

which grumbled and squeaked along in pain,

As he humbly walked in search of moneymaking deals

Early out in the dark, or late

It’s all the same, I suppose

When you are drenched to the skin

And the bottle of cheap gin parked in a pocket

Is less empty than empty could ever be

And the philosophy of Plato means less to he

Who taught it before the demon worm caught him up

And took over his choices and burned holes in his brain

And now he wanders alone in the rain.

THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN