Slow going end,
I waltz in petrichor
with birthday cards and bread,
after kissing another neck.
As the sky water
picks up, pouring down,
and the couples and a couple of bastards
run to their cars or other rumblers.
I forge commas and pretend to be a slow snake,
looking up and letting drops
hit my face, my eyes, with inspiration,
smiling at the wet reminder that I am alive.