All day the rain bounces on and off my green roof
while the dark stratus moving along the horizon
fills the three windows in my third story view;
each formation reminds me of zoo creatures
bound in cages we all visited as kids.
The zoo where longhaired monkeys play family
on bark-less tree stumps and green painted concrete
floors easy to wash out by the uniformed
official zookeepers where pretense of order is
critical and maintained with bananas and oranges.
Like the sleuth I sweep my focused beam into
my fanciful echoing Marabar cave in exotic realms
looking listening deciphering investigating
my very impulses until the strain sends me
searching for the sunlight above the stratus to write
tall tales strange stories memorable anecdotes searing
sadness flood my inner vision like this monsoon rain
further separating me from the physical world while I steep
my afternoon chai focused on the abstract
yet concrete world of my imagination
meeting a history of people I
am only just now inventing mentally:
alienated sons and playful girls and
lost wives stand solid in the ethereal
captivating my mind’s eye with their stormy chatter.
But that’s not all of it because they are
my invention and my sorrow and my passion
all rolled together to create my fiction.