A Phalanx of Rain

A phalanx of rain

marches down a Coos Bay beach.

Elmer and I meander in formation,

minions of a gray legion.

I am soaked to my shorts

this winter morning

at lightless dawn.

I should have worn the pea coat,

woolen armor,

a grizzled veteran

of a quarter century

on the Oregon Coast,

repelling, absorbing

gallons of rain

in silence.

Instead I wear a fancy jacket,

useless, noisy,

made from petrochemicals

that won’t fill my house

with the aroma of a wet dog

when it dries by the fire.

We pass the homeless encampment.

A man emerges.

He waves.

(We’ve met countless times.)

I say good morning.

He’s wearing a green robe and plaid slippers.

I laugh. How can I not?

Where’s the pipe,

burning an exotic Scottish blend,

spiced with Jamaican rum,

trailing wisps of smoke

slaughtered by the phalanx?

I see the man yawn,

rain drops the size of pennies

streaming across his face.