it’s raining again

& i’m sixteen now - but when it rains i might be six, trotting behind you on a rainy oakland street. i find love at the bottom of a berkeley bowl of gummy sharks, a biodegradable plastic bag full of chocolate covered cherries (save some for mom!) - my senses catalogue what i cannot describe - red rope playground nets and woodchips, the squealing of the blue garbage truck that might be the same one i awoke to ten years ago (i would watch it round the corner from behind the screen door with my cat; our eyes as big as buttons)

& i remember i thought the red booth seats and the dark polished bar were so fancy (tiny sliders on a platter) - you would stand behind the counter with a hose that streamed perfectly sweetened lemonade into a crystal glass (with a napkin) - i would feel at home in subtle rooms with subtle voices (shaking people's hands without knowing who they were but feeling proud) - look where you are now with giant stainless steel kitchens and pillows for purses - rooms that hide movable bookcases with green chairs - yet i still feel at home in all the places where you have worked.

& now my glasses are covered with droplets that i wipe away in vain, my mask fogs them up (uncomforts i’m not used to yet) so i write this poem & i get my feet wet - the sky is gray again (finally) - i can come home to croissants and make hot chocolate & (how else can i say this?) i feel at home with you.