Opera In the Rain
That evening it rained.
He was glad the diva was dry up there on the warmly lit stage.
The cold rain found every opening in his casual attire,
rivulets ran in runnels seeking out soft parts.
He decided he disliked Puccini outdoors.
He imagines that the dark haired beauty,
the one now singing, chest heaving,
offers him shelter beneath those ample bosoms
she looked the kind of lady that would.
An hour later he swooned away,
wheezing in Tosca's arms.
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