Stone Cold Bully Pulpit

Ninth in a series of Rain Poems.

Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

Deadpan epiphanies
from the rain 
on my tongue 
reminds me of spurts
from the water fountain
at the empty field 
my older step brother 
played football on—
naked of grass strands
and abundant 
in dirty earth 
pure enough to give 
you ringworm
if you wore shoes 
thin enough—
before being shut off 
because the city 
woul…