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Aversion to Showers

I've an aversion to showers.
So why am I here?
In a place where all-season showers,
make it abundantly clear...
I'm an anomaly, un-analogous, out of place.
Most fish live their lives in water;
here, I'm an animal from outer space.
I don't own a life jacket,
have no ticket for the ark.
How did this happen?
Must've bought the wrong map,
missed the mark.
This has been a straight flight
into the eye of the storm.
Having arrived in the Land of the Odds,
weirdness is everywhere,
everybody living as they can.
Oh damn,
why didn't I stay in the bath,
stay in the the middle seam
of the Midwest?
There seasons differentiate.
There you know your bearings.
The landscape's flat, discernable,
non-returnable, well, a bit pedestrian
there people do not attempt to ingratiate.
So much easier to sort than this mess.
But I had to live differently. I had to leave.
Still constant showers just aren't me.
I'm partly sunny, partly cloudy,
a parentheses.
Full-blown misery, drowning in obscure history,
the math of this western loneliness,
the pouring down rain
is not me.
Multiplications of dull despair
pea soup fogs rivaling London air.
Showers and their constant ever-complaining buzz,
the over-abundance of growing moss
and the forgotten, obfuscating
of it all.
2000 too many miles from home.


Copyright January 2012  All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells   Meloo of Tilt-a-World

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