Dry Season

It should be sodden:
   Rain-beaten leaves float in the puddles,
      furtive umbrellas cross the Peace Plaza—
 
Trap the rain’s tap-tap tattoo
   under sound studios of taut tenting
      that smell of wet wool cuffs—
 
Cold fingers wrap the plastic grips
   and thumb the toggle that erects
      and folds the jointed-metal ribs.
 
Dry bones. I can’t yet taste
   drought in a mouthful of sun.

First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black. I wrote this poem in response to the California drought of 2011-2017. When I wrote it in 2014, the drought was only halfway through.