It’s damp pavement and wood shavings
the heavy scent of spring in the air
the clouds contorted, empty, drifting
after letting loose on this city

The mailman’s got a raincoat
but it never boasted of being 100 percent waterproof.

I’ve got my umbrella, a Monet painted across it
the keys to somebody else’s house in hand
my mouth filled with the taste of a dentist’s office
as I wander these streets in search of something
something a little more than mail.

But it’s there anyways, when I get home
and I sit on the porch, with my umbrella
the mailman walking briskly to somebody else’s house
the dog next door shattering glass with it’s noise
exotic stamps littering small envelopes
the name of somebody transparent written across their bellies
as if urging me to reconsider.