It rained for days.
I sat out on the wet porch;
Wet rattan, wet canvas, wet timber;
And watched the mist moving across the sound.
When you’d been gone four – five – days
I began to think the rain would never stop.
Food ran out. Fuel ran out. Spores settled in my lungs.
And you still weren’t back from the store.
I sat there, staring out over Lonely Sound,
Picking apart the rotting rattan.
Waiting, but not expecting.
Just me and the weather.