The slate of differential gray
moves over and over my wet pants.
I waited out the hail. The rain, though,
got me good. I did not have a hood, so my
hair is damp too. It is not watery
in hell, so I know that I am least here
in purgatory. If not someplace higher.
I'm not exactly a denier, but skepticism
is my default friction. It's not the kind of sandpaper
that starts fires. Definitions by negation:
statuary arts. The gray looks blue at the darkest,
Seattle February blue. My red bicycle
demands a few more drops from this
exhausted sky. I will wait out this next
sob story under the dim light downpour of this
exposed rafter ceiling. Me and the rest
of this shop, this caffeine shop, this place
where me and the rest of us look into
laptops or eyes and cherish the little raindrops
streaking the portholes to the day.
Roman Ryan 