the month it didn't stop raining.

As the rain started to fall,
I gathered up my chalk pastels
and ran inside.
The colored markings on my concrete canvas
began to deliquesce, melting tragically
like the wicked witch of the west,
swirling into a murky and pasty, homogonous stew
and bled down the driveway into the gutters
until only ghostly remnants and pale contours
of the chalk drawings remained—
even though I was soaked to the bone,
I knew I wouldn’t wash away like my watercolors.

It rained for days.
The roads began to resemble rivers.
Children wrapped in bright yellow rubber
raced boats—folded from old newspaper—
down the flooded streets, and held out their umbrellas,
wishing a mighty gust of wind would carry them off into the sky.
Everyone became really good at hydroplaning.
I wondered if you were safe, warm and dry,
off in a bar somewhere, dazzling
the drunks, convincing them
that you could walk on water.

It continued to rain.
The streets dissolved like sugar candy.
When there was no higher ground to flock to,
everyone collected their precious family heirlooms,
treasures and tomato plants, and built ships:
some assembled makeshift boats
nailing together front doors, dressers and milk crates,
using bed sheets for sails and chandeliers for anchors,
some flipped their homes upside down,
turning them into arcs,
others built cathedrals in the trees
weaving beds in the branches
and nested with the birds.

Still the waters rose.
People’s limbs and wills began to rust.
Some lost their minds:
One man blindly thrusted his toilet plunger
into the sea, hoping to find and force out the clog,
pearl divers—and alcoholics wielding wine keys—
scoured the ocean floors,
searching for a cork to unplug the drain.
Some cast offerings into the salty depths,
hoping to please the rain gods, praying for the sun.
Others took matters into their own hands,
aiming home-made, piped cloudbusters at the sky,
attempting to change the weather.

Still the waters rose.
Salmon swam up the stairs of people’s houses,
coffins in cemeteries
rose from the loosened soil,
breaching the water’s surface
and floated through town like a parade
as their accompanying tombstones
stank like the rocks they were.

There was a time when I believed you were Midas,
because I was convinced everything you touched turned to gold.
Too bad gold sinks.

(Besides, I’d rather spin my own gold
for someone else:
on pins and needles, needles and pins
a patient man grins and grins.
Something in my heart tells me
riding out this storm
will be well worth the wait.)