Today the rain was unusually torrential. The little porch he had was began to flood. The drain at the end of it clogged with dried leaves, and unable to leak just as fast as it was flowing in.
The three steps that led to the porch, were being submerged into the holding area, and what was left was only the one visible step.
He sat down on the highest step, his scraggly feet now under the muddy waters. Muddy waters was another metaphor he had loved all his life, but that was beyond him on a day like today.
He sat under the shade, but could hear and visibly see the water go splattering in the puddle. Loud and on a beat. He tried to figure the beat. He was tone deaf, but it sounded like a 5/4, which means 5 notes were being played within 4 quarter beats, or was it the other way around.
For some reason he felt he had to get his poetry books out. His treasured rare ones, including the Pablo, the Ali, the Gulzar, the Dickinson, the Furia......
He walked back in, and got them out till the porch. He then sat down and began opening his favorite poems, he knew the pages like the back of his hand - as it the books were in braille...he could read them without ever having to see them. He knew the verses in his head, his own personal poems. Each poem had detailed notes scribbled around it. His own notes over years.
One by one, he tore the pages containing his favorite poems. He made little random unshapely boats out of them....very crude and then let them afloat into the muddle near his legs.
The muddle gave the boats a life of their own, and they started zig zagging. Losing shape with the torrent and yet bravely floating.
He stared at them with a solitude and reserve that one usually exhibits during mourning.
In his head a small prayer was beginning to form:
This rain must fall,
the paper must melt into water,
the words must dissolve into ether,
the alchemy of water turning into blood.
The poet's lies had finally caught up with him.