Rain cascades over our soggy town
as if from God’s overfull gutter
and all I can think is his roof
must be leaking, too.
Raised Catholic I can’t help
but say his not hers, him not her,
cannot help picturing an old man
white of beard, a length of thin white hair,
in this case soaked through, a drop
hanging from his Roman nose
all because of a divine experiment
gone awry, humans left to their own devices
and now no way to stop the flood.
The rain that refused to grace us
last summer now will not let up
on point of pride and God himself,
hard pressed to keep a civil tongue
in his head, grumbles and roars
throughout the heavens.
