Rain to bring on the heat, beer
to jump start a government
shut down. I could disappear
behind this digital self
portrait that turned out too dark.
Could take another
image to protect myself
from those gray areas—but I like
this shadow kissing my cheek.
Free to walk in the rain
in a park—to imagine a dial
tone from the sole remaining
pay phone on the southeast corner
where the sun might have crept in
another afternoon. It might dry up
in time for true blues
on a plaza, for a baseball game
to play out in a new stadium
where birds get in free.
This bleeding is a reminder—
not all watermarks spring
from water, not all spills
are toxic, not all rain washes
away grit, not all words
make it to the next day. She’ll do her best
to read another message
that might hang in suspension
without slipping
out of place. She could become
in place if she refused
to grimace over outpourings.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 