I listen, perched on freshly-washed sheets
with the fan making white noise to fill
the interstitial spaces, humming over
the shouts of people taking refuge from
the rain under the decrepit Korean church,
filling themselves up over and over
under the steps beneath the awning.
the warmth that comes is a small comfort
in April under the endless rain
that spills off the roof in sloshing drips
that mists the plants like the fake-thundering
areas of a produce section, so that everything
glistens with the masked scent of wetness,
mingling with the fragrant jasmine
that cover filigreed archways and trellises.
It should not smell like a basement outside.
I will wait for summer here, listening
to pattering rain on waterproof walkers,
to the squish of unprepared footwear
to the city-filled runoff slipping in to drains
to the unrelenting trickle off the church's roof
to my fan that muffles conversations of despair
and hunger, and of finding the dry spots,
while the trees drink in water.
I imagine them thinking:
"in a few months these people will love
my shade, branches thick with leaves,
all thanks to my friend the Rain".