In search of dry land

                                                                                               June 29, 1982

  

Currents of rain sweep before me as if my world was the deck of an ancient ship, with me as an untrusting sailor, scared I might fall off the edge at any moment.

The street like a cloud covered sea has become a gray mass of asphalt liquid, dark drops dripping silver in the sunlight, then smeared again, streaming out of elbow drain pipes in search of lower ground.

My window above our bed frames the gray shapes of Brillo clouds, like the brows of a dark stranger staring down, frowning over this gray city in which I live.

You stir in the bed beside me, squinting at the light despite it not being bright, then reach up, draw the shade and laugh with the chilly discomfort by little world creates; we, floating on a life raft rather than a sea-worthy ship; this sea ready to consume us whether we are ready or not, rocking on the rough water that is fed constantly by small tributaries over which we have no control, the drain pipes, the dripping trees, the small indignities we used to celebrate early on, but now dread for fear of drowning, which I still feel flowing through me while you seek drier ground, like Odysseus who needs to find a place where an oar might be mistaken for a plow.

I need for you to celebrate Spring, appreciate the slow greening under that stormy grey, and again enjoy the dripping gutters, the drain's groan, our gaze out the window at the melancholy spread of dawn.

But you are distracted, and now you listen only to the swish of tires, of cars rushing down the road, wondering after them, and where they go, wandering with them even in your dreams, so that day by day the Odysseus in you fades and Telemachus grows, and I am left stranded on this island, this raft in this rough sea to appreciate these passing storm clouds alone.