The Rain

The rain pours down. Can't run or hide today. When my mom comes home she goes straight outside, realizing that the waters are rising steadily. When I go outside, the brownish lake that has pooled on our front porch consists of water inches deep. My shoes are saturated with water and makes the sound of squishing grapes as I flop from the front yard to the back. My mom decidedes to hit out a couple boards from the fence, so aiding the flow of water. I hold a blue and white umbrella. The rain still comes into our house, an invading force, nature that still reckons with man. The night becomes cold.
The rain on our house almost brings me to what I could be doing instead of piddling around on the computer. Digging a ditch in back of our house. Something for the water to flow down into. Something so that every time it rains we don't have to pull out old beach towels to lay down to soak up the earth pee. I can just imagine myself digging lustily into the soil, steam rising from the depths of the ground and then catching malaria like so many diggers of that famous ditch, the Panama Canal.
So that's the news on the homefront. The Shakespeare I read keeps me on my toes and the frigid boxes of the internet writing site where I look for work still beg for more experience or education than I am qualified. There's one site that's not going to give me money for my pains but promises exposure at least, and that is www.PoetsInk.com. This is like www.PoetryCorner.com, a site which hosts a couple of my poems, the beginning poet's hope-bringer, like Paul Revere riding against time and the hordes of English critics. Nothing lost, something gained, perhaps.