I bring a candle to breakfast. Gloom outside the walls, I work to the creak and sigh of drops on the skylights. I grew up in a drenched crease of the kingdom, I know the whisper of rain. Watched the runnels and crammed-pipe gush flow down the sash panes, lounging on a window seat, sweet coffee, even-sweeter river-cold kisses from the girl back from a dash to the shops. I remember the polished cobblestones and the black-wet trees, the dayglo green of the park lawns and the busses chugging by, windows fogged over with hot breath and cigarette smoke. We had no deficit of damp in that town. Clouds moving fast and so low, just misting the chimneys. And me looking on, same as today, only less worn, wise and weathered.
