rain falls on rooftops
and poems and stories and gray gutters,
where it flows to the street and washes
the concrete clean of miles traveled
by lifetimes that were hung juries,
housewives and hobos and the ellipsis
that is mankind’s journey,
millions of steps made by thousands
unless one is a believer in stories
out of print and preserved by memory
against the falling of the rain.
It is a tale as old as cave paintings
and fire and a wheel rolling,
this snatching of narrative from the void,
the road that was grassy and wanted wear.
There are so many stories
I wished to write when the blood
was quicker in the vein,
and one that I did, two fingers typing
a plot arc fashioned from the steps
of my life and gaining momentum,
like a wheel rolling in my heart,
a short story that is out of print
but archived against the falling of the rain.