“Ode to the Puddle” by J. Soffer

You regurgitate
The reflection
Of tears that fall
From above.
You hold
Them as if you were
A pouch,
But only the survivors,
The ones who make it
To the bottom
Without being stopped
By the shielder of drops,
The umbrella.
Or someone's head,
Onto which the drops
Dismount so gracefully.
No, you get only the last ones,
The drops that
Persistently chase their friend
To the ground, where it has won
The race, the game of tag.
And there you calmly lie,
Sprawled on the
Wet pavement,
Black and lathered,
Like the waiter's hair
At the cheap Italian restaurant.
Sometimes you reach out
And grab the drops,
Magnetizing them
With your electric pull,
But other times
You simply let them fall,
Fainting into your
Making a soft, gentle
Time after time you gather
The plops until
Your gathering has become
So great that you separate
And go your different ways,
Like bacteria reproducing
Again and again,
Until the wet, slick
Cement is covered.
And now different
Puddles have parts
Of you,
Part of your
Brush with the sky,
The touch of the weather god.
Now the drops have separated too.
Nothing is together now.
And one part of you
Slides, slithers, and falls
Down a sewer in the street.
That's when the rain stops.