It was cats and dogs this morning,
pelting my thin coat and thinner resolve
as I wandered past mounds of winter harvest;
purple kohlrabi, kale and carrots
stacked together in tri-colored pyramids.
The convivial voices of vendors echoed
through the canyon of brick store fronts
and provisional pop-up shelters. The under-fur
of small dogs dragged in the puddles
at my feet.
Now, hours later, lying back with a book
and a mind full of quandary, the sun
has made its way through and is casting shadows
off the bean tree in the front yard.
The black relief of leaves flicker
against the window’s slatted blinds.
Though the cats are asleep in a heap
under the leather chair, a mass
of rising and ascending amiability,—
all is never all-well—
I am thrown in the tailspin
of mourning the moment I am in
while I am in it, constant negotiations
with the now and the eternal
drawing of new cards. I am forever gesturing
at the proverbial dealer across the table
with a kind of gimme motion from an up-turned hand
—hit me, I tell him, that’s the term I’m looking for—hit me.
Give it to me straight, I can take it.
Render me luckless and loony . . . call me
irresponsible, but grant me a do-over, another chance
at randomness . . . I’m game, I’m ready.
I’m facing the rain, and not giving in.