The rain came on strong
like a rabid dog,
bubbling out from all sides;
The big brown nose, sputtering out
a mucous-laden weather report.
The rain chases all the people,
out in the open,
up and down the sidewalks,
nipping at their ankles;
Tailing them across streets—
and up flights of stairs,
like squirrels up ladders;
The doors slamming shut—
on the rain, barking mad.
The people inside, feeling safe now, exhale,
turning up the furnace, setting kettles on to boil.
They press their faces against front-shop windows,
staring eye to eye
with bloodshot madness; Hot drool,
fogging up the glass,
trickling down in satanic patterns;
The people’s fingers trace the rain drops,
down and around from northwest,
to southeast, until their nail cracks on the sill.
The rain stays there, outside, all day and night;
Keeping watch of all the people;
Waiting for them, stalking on them;
Knowing that sooner or later,
would have to go outside again.
But the people, more patient than the rain,
stay inside until the rain roams on,
listening for the silent reprieve of dawn;
When the snarls, howls, and growls
become a distant woof;
A pitter, patter, and then— NOTHING.
The people, carefully and quietly,
onto their porches, picking up the morning paper—
and sliding it out from the blue plastic bag,
covered in cold, wet slobber.
The people, bravely make their way back into town,
sipping their coffees, confident,
but KNOWING all along—
that the maniac,
the rabid dog
might be around any corner;
Waiting on the sound of their footsteps,
before snapping out from the dark
to confront them
with a hunger that never goes ignored.