by BOB GALLO   Aug 18, 2021

Like for all the time
rain was pouring and I was dry.

it was morning and I still were dehydrated.
My bricks were soaking outside
and parched inwards.
My skin, my lips, were drenched
...outside the windows
of my thirst.

My birth certificate, my writing,
all my papers, my identities,
turned unidentifiable.
The rain smudge them all,
everything except me,
and my aridness
my withered self.

I say to myself:
gosh when would these dews
the spring bed of moist,
the day and night respiration of these petals,
on my creased and scarred skin,
would rain,
crystal clear
inside my soul?


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