It seems one & all will
scribble of the rain—
but not in the rain.
I get your ink will
smear. Paper will be
sodden like an overzealous
Scotch-Brite.
Unless your poem’s called
Waterlogged,
that simply will not do.
And unless your tale
has L’Oréal—
the cliché of a runny
flume—you’re better
off beneath our
gleaming star. People
are always beaming
when it’s sunny.
I’ve yet to see a
frown within its rays.
I’ve yet to see a smile
in a cat & dog
deluge. I doubt Noah’s
barge of pets had
blissfully whistled to
Bobby McFerrin.
Of course, I understand
your laptop getting
soaked. The shock you’ll get
when your elegy’s up &
done, for the dove felled
by a flash, your hair like
Phyllis Diller’s—
once you’ve plugged it
in the wall before it’s dry,
fathoming why those
inside the death house
eschew electric chairs,
opt for a splash of
bullets, venom in their
veins, or kicking their feet to
swing, like a mid-air
Fred Astaire, the clouds
a pregnant matron, bawling
her water’s broke.
Andreas Gripp
July 21, 2026
photo: Kevin Carden / Dreamstime
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