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.
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