A piss-patter
raindrop multiplies
and an icicle
radiates outward
on the asphalt
where roses are
thorn and thistle:
I was waiting
for that one
to fall
like words
that won’t stop
crashing in maths
on graphs all
pebble and tar
where maps are
made and cast away
like yesterday’s
newsprint bunched
and plugging the
drain those people
waltz through
gingerly like little
glowing tinsel fairies
atop a tree:
you’d punch them
in the face to stop them
smiling but all you’d
get would be a “have
a happy holiday!”
as if you were rain
and they were
teetering on the edge
of eavestroughs.

Tags: poetry