When it rains, they send us home
delivering the news the way a priest might
tell you about the loss of a loved one:
“I’m very sorry, but the sun didn’t pull through.
Go home and be with your families.”

Heads bowed, hands stuffed deep into our pockets,
rain running like teardrops down our cheeks, 
we solemnly trudge back to our cars
through thick sticky mud
Soldiers returning home from war
after suffering devastating losses

An act that deserves a standing ovation!

Not until we’re safe in our cars,
a mile down the road, out of the boss’s sight
do we let out a WHOOP! of pure childish delight
allowing our smiles to burst free
from the prison of adulthood

How could one be bothered
at the prospect of freedom for a day?
The options lay before me like 
playing cards in a magician’s hand

Maybe I'll choose
the queen of movies and king of snacks 
or the seven of productivity
The jack of poems seems delightful
or the ace of crafts
or the four of naps

Or I can just walk the dog through the forest,
listening to the delicate pat-pat-pat
of the busy drops washing clean the leaves
of the dusty remnants of summer, 
before they continue onto the soft ground

If the weatherman predicts rain
I might say something to the guys like,
“I hope this rain holds off ‘til tonight,” and
“I really can’t afford to take time off”

Which is true
but it’s also true
that I am rich in the ways that I am poor
My account that holds the days of my life
gets smaller and smaller
and there are no more deposits being made

So, when the rain offers me an exchange:
a day of work for a day of play,
I accept the offer, shaking hands vigorously
Because there are so many different things to do

like sitting in a wobbly chair 
before a crackling fire,
one leg crossed over the other,
a cup of peppermint tea, its steam flickering
like invisible flames.

And on my lap, a tattered copy of Walden,
its pages the yellowed fingers of an old smoker
telling his tales of a time long ago,
and a big, wet dog, 
sound asleep at my feet