Tapping

It does not rain here like it does in my mind—

it only taps on my car rooftop,

on the darkened window,

on the formation of umbrellas.

Pitter patter:

only memory bends my thought

sleek. I listen; the latches wash

loose, banging the doors open

for my remembrance.

I gained my feet and inches in a city that rained;

In my own time, in years to come

I will need to return

for fear those things rust:

the rain tapping in my ears,

the rain tapping on my skin.