You can pick out a poet from around here
by how much he writes about the rain
the everywhereness of mist
the hysterics of a downpour
but mostly the banality of so much wetness
it is as though God is unaware
he has left the faucet on
like the fellow at the coffee shop
who writes for hours
bouncing his leg the whole time
the rain is like that here
an absent-minded flood
a steady static
that come winter
nobody but the poets
will notice.