When the rain falls and the hoods rise I look for you everywhere.
Is that steam rising out of the butchered sidewalk or are you around the corner smoking, ruminating on the world’s next religion?
I lift my head to get a whiff and let the rain pepper my salt and chill my bones. I taste like steel.
I am hunting in rain boots, camouflage for everyone and everything but you, Stephen. See me. The pouring rain is your domain and what I’ve lost is yours to gain. Hunt me. My rain boots are yellow.
Do you still go to church? They won’t let me in.
I miss you. I wish I was standing next to you, licking the steel off your cigarette, but instead I’m on my way to the Gap to buy my kid some new jammies.
You know how we do.