I leave my shirt on

in the rain.

No hounds herd

me to the surf.

Here…this denim shirt

carries no secret

messages.  It’s just

rain.  Someone called

me a teacher.

I wonder

how the cats are.

The frog is a symbol

of luck in Japan.

In China, it’s the bat.

A black cat

made of wood,

left paw raised,

sits on my shelf.

Lucky as well.  It’s said

he waved

at the Buddha

who turned

back to look.

But it’s only rain.

This is a cafeteria,

a solitary ride,

a stale beer,

a piece of cinnamon gum,

and rain that’s still

only rain.  The dog

is a symbol of luck…

I am gray enough

to start turning red.

Rain isn’t hard.

I’m in the library

horrified by Frost

and his shattered glass

teeth—sharpened

rain spilled across the table

like sharpened rain.

If I chew on love,

my mouth spits rain

that is only rain.