The Rusty Tin Can

raindrops collect on corrogated tin metal Which covers me in the early morning. i remember sitting on those steps and listening to each distinct drip..drop..drip.. that would come off of the leaves and trees as the rain fell. and i suppose there was some reason to be found or maybe a requem or some somber sound, but for me it was always peaceful. the clouds seemed lift and offer up their palms and the mud puddles would be full of sparatic rejoicing. fearns and trees and rust and clouds and foggy breath with me ashing a cigerrette into a rusty tin can. and i suppose you can find beauty in between several blades of grass. and i guess that there may be some meaning in a poem about a kid smoking cigerettes on the back porch in the rain next to a rusty can full of to many and's.