It's Almost Summer, It's Almost Raining

He stands in the rain,
it avoids him
a barely perceptible phenomenon,
the chance so small
it will not be realized and analyzed
until long after he reaches his destination,

an abandoned home,
an occupied yard,
a girl, struck by every drop within view
a nexus, a return;
rebirth and death and rebirth and birth and death
and it all washes away
little Persephone in the cold,
pulled forth and back,

the road eaten away
dirt mud ugliness impossible,
sucking his boots in
holding hard, fast,
refuses to let go and
drudging through, obscured by a light
refracted, mingling with
the rain's neglect,

a silhouette in the garage,
forged of crafted blistered metal,
a 1965 Oldsmobile,
and it hasn't run in ages,
since 1985 to be exact, it's well kept
except for the engine,
silent and content
to wrestle with eternity,
rain makes patterns on the roof,
pushing through tin and iron,
happily rusted,
a treasure passed in the night
footprint after footprint.