POETRY
WET STONES by anousha sannat
It rained. It rained again last night. It’s the same every time, and nothing changes. Especially not the rain.
I get into my car and wipe the tears away from last night. A few drops fall from the roof of the car. Put the car in drive.
As I step over wet stones, I watch the neighborhood wake up. It’s more of a slow stretch now, dragging between getting up and being productive or just staying in bed.
It’s cloudy as I drive on. The streets have those same wet stains on them. The trees glitter softly with a light wind.
People act surprised when water drips down their open car trunks. I mean, really? What else would happen?
I want the storm to come already and rid us of all this rain.
The wet stones are an imbalance, sitting soggy on their designated space like cereal left out.
It’s not strong enough, not yet.
I look up at the sky. It’s cloudy. How is it still cloudy?! I want it to storm already.
But it won’t.
It will rain again tomorrow, and the night after. Tears will still fall, people will still just grudge out of bed, droplets will slip down cars, streets stay wet, and the rain will fall down.
Tomorrow, I’ll say It rained. NOV2021||The penchant|4
