The rain falls gently all around,
touching my face like an ancient great-aunt,
her cold slick fingers trying to recall
what warm and soft felt like.
Easily forgotten, I’d imagine,
if I didn’t know the truth,
I suppose I could slap my cheek
and then brush my fingertips
against a freshly shaven expanse
of warm pink flesh, but that would be
like touching a medium rare steak,
lifeless and ultimately not good
for what ails me.
The wind’s shifted and the rain
comes harder now, stinging my cheek
with the old slap of reality
that I wouldn’t recall warmth anyway.
See, I’ve always been a medium rare
kind of guy and this rain’s just a reminder
of what really ails me.