Fallen Fruit

I hear the sharp raindrops tap the budding green leaves like the ticks from my wristwatch. Through the childlike window I see gigantic maple pillars and a forest of wet grass. The ghostly smoke from my pipe rises towards the lightbulb, air bubbles in my wine. My fingers skim thorugh a magazine, the glossy pictures reflect the bulb's light, but it still appears dark. The turntable plays an old Sinantra album I found somewhere in the corner of my mind. As the record spins, the needle gets closer to the center hole with each revolution. The shower outside intensifies, shallow indents in the earth start to pool the rain, saving it for something, they hoard the water like misers with their fortunes, waiting for something. The diligent needle hits a groove and plays the same short sound over again and again, not wanting to finish, it prolongs its time, waiting. Waiting for something. The rickety wooden chair maons as I lean back. I sit watching some raindrops sneak through the window, like ants upon finding a fallen piece of fruit. 1994