A River
Joe Somoza
Earlier, as I was driving Jill to work, it poured.
When I got home, the cat
was meowing from inside
the old Juarez dog house
no one uses any more
since Nanny was terminated
by a motorcyclist. Ah,
rain! Always the same
old melancholy. No matter
if it's spring in Cincinnati
or winter rain atop your
graying head. Maybe
it's a river that goes
underground from time
to place. But you can
dig it up. Like Vine Street
black and glistening
in a drizzle as you're
waiting cold under an awning
for the bus. To where?
You can't go there
again. Everyone you knew
has aged or left
and you're not interested
in science fiction. Downriver
is where you are. Your kids
following their own tributaries
away from center, which
is to say, from you,
whose river grew
and its current can't
reverse itself.
The sky finally
begins clearing. A few
drippings from the pyracantha
in the front.
Then underground again.
Joseph Somoza
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