Nocturne (III)

Hard rain this afternoon with drops so big

they came down white. Just sprinkling now: I see

the dimpling puddles on the deck. It’s reruns

of The Office on TV, and Creed’s

just cracked a joke about some sprouts he’s grown:

“nutritious, but they smell like death.” Like all

that’s wet outside: the blood-brown mulch, the spruces

shaggy as the mastodons that went

extinct 12,000 years ago. The brain-haze

from this beer, my third, has blurred the data,

darkened passing time. A retro vibe

tonight, for sure, with Pink Floyd in one ear,

and Thumper, Dad’s old pasta pot, now rocking

on the stovetop. Bubbles rising, just

to die. The same old fears. Wish you were here.