the tin roof

the rain drums loud on the tin roof,

its so loud that every chatter outside is masked.

people stand under the this roof;

the lady with the dog has stopped playing with her curls,

she seems to remember a lover she kissed on the rain.

a shabby old man in ragged clothes has poised

half spent cigarette in his dirty fingers.

he is looking out from the window

almost jesus like in his glory.

and there you are,

sober and little rain wet,

with a cat like disdain for the downpour,

passively looking at your phone,

a private story cocooned in your palms,

oblivious to the chekovian angel,

and an obvious mystic,

and the plit-plat of the rain.

you are caught up in static of your own mind.

the rain keeps on pouring,

until it doesn’t.

and then the lady goes,

the shabby man goes,

and you go too.

the tin roof canopies nothing now….