It Rains

It rains, f

          a

             l

         l

            i

        n

       g       

“like out of a

                   B    T”

                   U    E

                    C K

as the Russians say.

We sing a song of Feste

and the rain it raineth every day.

The water flows d

                           o

                            w

                               n

                                   h

                                        i

                                             l

                                                    l

                over drains,

        hiding the sides of the road:

       puddles the size of a pond

         are only missing a toad

          to croak their approval

         of this pluvial overload.

                    And not even a blue patch,

           the size of a sailor’s jock strap,

     to promise a hint of later sun

 and coax the rising of sap

in the cold northerners

huddled in their raincoats,

while boys and girls hide inside,

glued to screens, safe from rain,

housebound until spring or snow

whichever comes first.