It’s not torrential 
	or even steady,
		this moderate rain, 

more from the eaves than
	the clouds. I’ve long closed 
		the blinds; I hear it,

not see it. Like 
	the tentative steps  
		of would-be visitors 

killed in car crashes. 
	It hasn’t stopped in months. 
		One morning, I get 

the idea it’s all 
	in my head, stepping out 
		and shooting to the sky, 

melting and startled. 
	Beyond the blue, ground lies, 
		full of upside-down buildings. 

I splash, shatter, and 
	rise as many people—
		one of them perhaps me—

	back and forth between. 

Mark Henderson is an associate professor of English at Tuskegee University. He earned his Ph.D. at Auburn University with concentrations in American literature and psychoanalytic theory. He has poems published or forthcoming in Cozy Cat PressFrom Whispers to RoarsDefenestrationism.netBombfireFormer PeopleNeologismBroad River ReviewRune BearFlora Fiction, and Flare. He was born and raised in Monroe, Louisiana, and currently resides in Auburn, Alabama.

[image: Moody Raindrops In Dark Blue Puddle | LasPo rocks]

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