The latest resolution
composed at 0549 on a Friday
travelling 61 mph on the 405 as
mist from trucks around me
bathes my car in a benevolent
poisonous rinse;
this rain the first since April
& so encumbered
with unreasonable expectations
similar to that of the
first born
to a failing monarchy;
on it I do swear
to refrain from writing anymore
about birds.
Or the moon.

No more mournful laments
about the distance between
my lover and I
being akin to the careful, ever distant
embrace of cold moon
to this humid planet.
No more expansions of the way a bird’s eye
reflects the disdain & murderous intent
inherited from grandpa dinosaur.
Nor to incessant throat-aching
birdsong out of tune.
A preen of fantastic colors.
No, I will not.

Today, rain.
Wash all this stuff away
off my car & sluice the trees,
the careful, toxic squares of lawn,
flat roofed warehouses &
thirsty rock gardens until
the effluent fills the gutter
& plunges into the pipes
to emerge in El Segundo.
Spanish for Waste Water Plant.
It might positive test for salt, heavy metals
& dissolved solids, yes, non-potable &
though it blurs the ink on my page,
drip drops without pause
I will not call them tears,
no, never again.

This time I mean it.

– Travis Stephens