I wish it were raining while I’m eating my soup.
The drizzle would glide down the panes of the glass roof, overhead
enveloping my senses in memories of a childhood long since put away,
enveloping my senses in memories of a childhood long since put away,
time spent inside the library, reading of exciting voyages
looking through the window, past the trickling drip-drops
into the vast, grey, powerful sky
and wondering how Columbus felt as he re-discovered America.
There, behind the streaked window pane of Port Washington Public Library
I was re-discovering lands that only Stevenson and Defoe
and countless other adventuresome lads had before me.
It was a solitary time, a thrillingly solitary time,
and I find myself longing to be back there.
As finally a single droplet finds its way to the glass roof over my head,
I find it strikingly peaceful that I’m sitting here, reminiscing over this steaming bowl of hot soup,
the droplet, a harbinger of the imminent storm
the soup, a nourishment of my body and overactive imagination.
Perhaps the whole sky will fall, and break this fragile ceiling above me
and I’ll be carried away with the entire town,
transported to my own island, where, of course, I’ll have soup everyday
and say, “Hey, remember that time I had the soup, and it rained, and I landed here?”
Gee, if only I were more prepared. I could use my spoon as an oar, if it were bigger, that is.
After I have enjoyed the entire bowl of imagination stew, I look up, just wondering.
The panes are now streaked with miniscule rivers from a light sprinkle;
I had bigger plans for that rain.
But, alas, as my soup is no more, such is the storm of this day.
Nevertheless, my wish for rain came true,
and now I, as Noah, must venture out unto the land, renewed
by the freshly-recalled ponderings of my childhood
and the drip-drop splashings that were summoned over this bowl of tomato-rice bisque.
