a prose poem
the rain that washes your whiskers clean. the child's mouth, filled with milk and truth, baby teeth and naiveté. a burlap bag filled with the seeds of regret. a broken clown sent away from the circus, his huge shoes flapping on the wet sidewalk; the rain of deepest winter. inside of this storm, a quiet doorway where one can huddle. the rain that washes your whiskers clean. the wind that rids the street of trash; it has to end up somewhere. the child swallows the milk and tells the truth. the clown gives in to depression. looking up, it is easy to see that it will rain and blow all night.Â
james lee jobe