The rain doesn’t think about me

Forty-nine paces through the pissing rain turns my shirt to slick black satin across my shoulders and chest
Bubbling up from the gravel, across my feet, and through the gaps in my worn heel shoes to form rivers on the pavement
My hair falls in my face like a man waking from a dream, born into the day again, too dumbfounded to react

I can’t do a thing about the rain
The rain is not personal
It doesn’t think about me like I think about it
I can only control how I deal with it
With a pitifully limited set of modalities, philosophies, and outmoded tools


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