Like Rain — Bill Abbott



She rested her arm on the window ledge,
stared out the rain-splattered window
at the wet streets below, and wondered
aloud how anyone could be persuaded
to go out on a day like that.

Her skin visible through the thin cloth
draping her shoulders, and I wondered
about falling as well, like rain that never
reaches any sort of ground, about
falling and slipping and if I could just
reach her, touch her one more time,
it would be enough, but it wouldn’t.

I pulled back the covers. She said,
“I thought you’d never ask.” We
persuaded each other through the day
to stay in. We fell.



***


Bill Abbott is the author of Let Them Eat MoonPie, the history of poetry slam in the Southeast, and the forthcoming poetry collection, (My Life and Other) Train Wrecks of Ohio. He has been published in Ray’s Road Review, Radius, The November 3rd Club, Flypaper Magazine, and The Sow’s Ear. He lives in Ohio and teaches creative writing at Central State University.