Poetry

Rainy Day in Providence

by

John Grey

Lies grow in bushes.
And then it rains.
Missteps thrive in sultry weather.
Entire blunders bucket down.
And puddles, like tears
from looking backward,
fill the paths
so madness can take root
in cracks.
I stoop to pick up
something insincere that's fallen.
Got it.
Either I have a deluded reach
or it hasn't fallen far enough.