What Wet
Night was glazed
by a warm cone spray
of red wine;
and I still say
the cork
was clumsy.
But morning was a baptismal explosion
with the puncturing crash
of a diet soda can
spinning a fan of caramel
sick, as high as ceiling
and far as sink,
in foamy sticky
angry drips.
And as something seems
determined to keep me wet,
I left my umbrella
in that brown mess
and walked across the lot
in a torrential pour,
like an expert amphibian
blessed and bored.
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