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".