I have come to expect rain, torrential downfalls,

the great big shrugs of old men who empty buckets

into the streets.

I have come to the point in a promise

where eyes meet, and there is an injustice

of silence between us:

The part of the curtain that blocks the sky

from this angle on the bed.

Light collects in packets on the floor.

The cage does not resemble a cage,

which therein lies its genius.

Walls overlap in wallpaper, curls catching in the corner

going back 30 years. I reach out to smooth them,

like a child’s ringlets, to no avail—this too, not unexpected.

Raindrops thicken on the window

and follow sideways paths to the ground.

My hands resemble my father’s hands

so that at times, I catch him warming soup on the stove

or holding a picture too long from the mantle.