I hate the rain of my Brooklyn childhood
crying through sparse sycamore trees
of an early, darkened morning,
bark dripping with residue streaks
of a youth's insomnia,
heartbeat newly touched by the
tyrannical tapping and heavy thuds
of grief and pain atop
old, battered aluminum waste
cans.
The caco-
phony of wet woe
completing its course
through dirty street gutters,
clogged by random impediments
in a sluice for all good desires
dared and dreamed and drenched
in the passage of love—
before the corner drain,
clogged with heart's brambled blood
claims what I have felt.

Long Island lawns,
manicured and lush and green
with the nourishment of mature manna
fallen from guarded, suburban skies,
are mute to the sound of pain.
I will mow my pretty grass
silently this weekend,
tenderly treading
on its tufts of tacit toil.

-Michael D. Petti

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