Paper Mask

Pulp scraped
off the street.
Last night,
it snowed rain.
it rained rain.
It never snows snow
here, though.
Therefore, I come
to complain,
with paper mask
folded on my face,
fashioned from
pulp scraped
off the street.
It is always the same.
Mushy. Brown.
Gray. Sputtering.
Stinking of Forecasts
that have come and gone,
proving man a failure
always at this game,
but still tomorrow,
we will reply upon him
to tell us about today,
come rain or rain—
without delay.

written on 11/24/2010 by: Matt Kane