Unbecoming the Rain

The schematics were confusing. From the outset I
sensed it, the arctic again. He served up the rotini
and that was that. It was in a water-stained trunk
of old papers that I first stumbled upon the secret

of meandering equivalencies and the distribution 
of want. We were hunting for a grease gun, each 
of us, ham-handed, and what did we find? Fifteen
canaries in an unmarked grave. It was like scoring 

a scene from a Russian novel to be played entirely 
on a bent trombone. Still, the bass parts, fetching.
I had to understand the sky. Its studied phrasings.
Medevac copters and the royal we. She asked us 

if we ever found out why the pencils didn’t work,
but we knew it, we were lied to. There never was 
no way out. I gathered up the burnt and sugared 
remnants from the floor. We didn’t have a throw

rug to ferry off the dogs and none of us could skate 
worth a damn, whatever was coming, was coming,
there wasn’t a cloud left here to stop it. I just kept
on counting. I was hungry and too used to the rain.

Jeffrey Little | (doorknobs dream of sleep)
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2023)