The rain in my hometown is low tide smell and
foggy windows, thunder rattled,
it is omnipresent.
The rain in my hometown is the lingering
of a lightbulb after you've flipped the switch
and the stars that follow.
The rain in my hometown is piggy bank boredom
saved for a perfect day.
The rain in my hometown looks just like the
7-Eleven parking lot
where I learned to ride my bike,
it is the last payphone
at the last bus stop
on the last street before you leave town.
The rain in my hometown is green-tinted skylines
and low tide smell on the wind
and bones, thunder rattled,
when the water claws up the beach to swallow you whole.
The rain in my hometown is
all of the ways that these sleepy mountain drizzles
are too dry to quench my thirst
and the nights just a bit too cloudy
to see the stars.